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Ye seraphs, turn, unveil the wondering gaze,
Suspend the song, and pause in deep amaze;
For He, erewhile in heavenly power array'd,
Is now a mortal babe, in a rude manger laid;
There, for the hallelujahs of the sky,
The pale, fair Virgin chants her lullaby;
And strives with feeble arm to ward away
The rough intruders from his couch of hay;
For, rudely pressing nigh, the hungry beast
Claims from that narrow crib his wonted feast.
No more from cherub lips the hymns resound,
But oxen low, and camels snort around;-
And wherefore thus?-why on thy creature earth,
A wand'ring outcast from thy mystic birth,
Lord of unnumber'd worlds!-why hast thou borne
The barb of calumny, the jeer of scorn,
The fierce temptation, and the pang of woe,
The shudd'ring dread, the agonizing throe;
The wile of treachery, the felon's doom,

The buffet and the scourge, the cross and tomb?
Had not thy slightest beck, thy glancing eye,
Summon'd a thousand legions from the sky,
And the stern fiat of thy bidding hurl'd
Down to the deep-most hell this rebel world-
If such thy will?-But thou hast bow'd the head,
And drain'd the cup, and slumber'd with the dead,
And ris'n.-Ye seraphs, shout the joyful strain;
Echo, thou earth; the Lord is risen again!
Behold the mighty Victor homeward ride,-
Unbar the' eternal gates, and fling them wide;
And who shall close them now? I come, I come,
Through that broad entrance, to my Father's home.
Heir of immortal life, through faith reveal'd,
Bought by thy blood, and with thy Spirit seal'd,
My Lord, I come.—O let my failing breath
Resound thy name e'en in the gasp of death,
Jesus-Redeemer!"-and the soul had flown,
To meet the Lord of life, in that triumphant tone.

WHAT IS LIFE?

LIFE! 'tis but a passing hour,
Borne on eagles' wings away;
But the budding of a flower,
Struck by premature decay:
Fleeting as an ocean's bubble,
Wishful though so oft it seems,
It is still a sea of trouble;

Short are pleasure's fitful gleams:

Burnley.

Life! 'tis but a moment's span ;

But of endless space the door :
Soon the child becomes the man,
Soon the man is seen no more.

'Tis but the swelling of a tide

That shortly sinks from whence it rose;
The lightning's flash, that, far and wide,
Its passing glare so brightly throws.
"Tis but the mournful wintry blast

That howls along the echoing wood;
'Tis but the shower so quickly past;
'Tis but the murm'ring of the flood.
Death in a thousand forms draws nigh,
We sink into eternity.

R. W. M.

DEVOTION.

How sweet at evening's close,
When none but God is near,

And true devotion glows,

To bend with holy fear:
To kneel with those we love,

The fond ones, and the true;
To think of those above

Whom once on earth we knew!
"They're gone!" Affection cries;
Fond Mem'ry thinks them here;
Whilst Grief breaks forth in sighs,
Then, silent, wipes a tear.
Faith looks beyond the skies,
And glances on the throng,
Which share celestial joys,
And sing the' immortal song.
There each remember'd face
Of sister, brother, friends,
up with smiles, we trace,
By light which glory lends.

Lit

"They're here!" Religion cries,

"I've borne them home to God:

Restrain those tears and sighs,

Go, tread the path they trod.

"Then thou shalt meet them there,

And share a Saviour's love:

A family of prayer

Is sure to meet above!"

Roche, Printer, 25, Hoxton-square, London.

J. F.

Engraved by S. Iacey.

VIEW OF DUBLIN, FROM THE PHOENIX PARK, DUBLIN.

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THE spots on which cities are built have generally some peculiar advantage: and it might, perhaps, be observed, that a great many of the most remarkable cities are built near rivers; and sometimes, yea, frequently, as near to the sea, on the banks of the river which joins it, as where a bridge can be thrown across, or, before bridges were so frequently erected, where a ferry could be established. Such is the case with London, "the mart of nations," the capital of the British empire; Edinburgh, the modern Athens; and Dublin, the capital of Ireland, a view of which is presented in the plate accompanying this note. Another observation may be justly added, that every city has something that is peculiar connected with it. Who that has visited Paris but must have been struck with the transition from the busy, bustling streets, by almost a single step, to the tranquil, peaceful gardens of the Tuilleries, or the Luxembourg, or the walks attached to the different coffee-houses on the Boulevards? Who that has visited Lyons, but must have been arrested by that grand sight, the rapid Rhone? What more enchanting view can be found than the entrance to the Bay of Naples, extending itself around, decked with palaces and villas; while Vesuvius seems to look on the scene below, and at intervals pours VOL. VI. Second Series. I

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