habitants of Trichinopoly. They rest on the north side of the altar in St John's Church.

Of his death it has been beautifully said, that his sun was in its meridian power, and its warmth most genial, when it was suddenly eclipsed forever. He fell as the standard bearer of the cross should ever wish to fall, by no lingering decay, but in the firmness and vigor of his age, and in the very act of combat and triumph. His master came suddenly, and found him faitl:ful in his charge, and waiting for his appearing. His last hour was spent in his Lord's service, and in ministering to the humblest of his flock. He had scarcely put off the sacred robes with which he had served at the altar of his God on earth, when he was suddenly admitted to the sanctuary on high, and clothed with the garments of immortality.'

'Go to the grave in all thy glorious prime,
In full activity of zeal and power;

A Christian cannot die before his time,

The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour,'

ELEGY ON BISHOP HEBER.

BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM.

He fell not in climbing the icy steep
Which Ambition delights to scale;

For the deeds of his arm not a widow shall weep,
Or an orphan her father bewail:

It was not in piercing the mountain's side
For the mine's forbidden treasure ;

Or in pushing his bark o'er the shallow tide
Of bright, but delusive pleasure.

Here bonor and interest woo'd him to rest,
And spoke of the evils to come;

And love clasped him close to her cowardly breast,
And whispered the joys of his home;
But zeal for his Lord dissolved every chain
By which we endeavored to bind him;
He paid every tear, by tears back again,
But cast all our wishes behind him.

And he mounted the deck, and we saw him depart From our breezy and verdant shore;

And we left him, in sadness and sickness of heart,
To think we might see him no more;

But he sought the far coast of the sultry land,
Where the sun never knows a cloud;
And he planted his foot on the burning strand,
And his head at the altar he bowed:

And his soul, by the solemn oath he bound,
To live and to die for the Lord;

348

LIFE OF REGINALD HEBER.

The idol temples to strew on the ground,
And to publish the life-giving Word:
And he preached it by day, and by dewy eve,
And when night had darkened the plain.
Ah! who shall the tale of his labors weave,
And, so, give us our brother again?

He fell, as he conquered; a sorrowing crowd
Of each people, and language, and tongue,
Pressed sadly around his cold grave, and, aloud
Their heart-broken obsequies sung:

Our brother has fallen; and, low in the dust,
Do his earthly relics slumber;

But his spirit is gone to the land where the just
Surround the "white throne" without number.'

But his grave has a voice, and I hear it proclaim,
'Go forward, till day chases night;
Till all nations adore th' unspeakable Name,

And the world's one wide ocean of light;
Till our God is enthroned on Judah's dark hills,
And sheathes his all conquering sword;

Till the desolate earth with His glory He fills,
And all realms are the realms of the Lord.'

SELECTION FROM BISHOP HEBER'S HYMNS.

I.

THE Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar!
Who follows in his train ?

Who best can drink his cup of wo,
Triumphant over pain,

Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in his train.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
Who saw his Master in the sky,
And called on him to save.

Like Him, with pardon on his tongue
In midst of mortal pain,

He prayed for them that did the wrong!
Who follows in his train.

A glorious band, the chosen few,
On whom the spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hopes they knew,

And mock'd the cross and flame.

They met the tyrant's brandished steel,

The lion's gory mane:

They bowed their necks the death to feel.

Who follows in their train?

A noble army, men and boys,

The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of light arrayed.

They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain.

O, God! to us may grace be given

To follow in their train.

II.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

How sweet the lily grows.

How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose.

Lo such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay ;

The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age

Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage.