To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Broad cast it o'er the land.

Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stock;
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow,

Scatter it on the rock.

Thou canst not toil in vain :

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain,
For garners in the sky.

And duly shall appear,

In beauty, verdure, strength,
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn, at length.

Rochdale, Nov. 23, 1855.

BURNING BANK-NOTES.

BURNING bank-notes! what a provoking accident that must have been!"

But I am not speaking of an accident, my young friend, but of what is mentioned as a fact, though such a strange one, that we may have some difficulty in believing it true.

It is said that two gentlemen actually laid a bet who should destroy the greatest number of bank-notes, and that one of these foolish wasters of his goods lived to end his days in a poor-house!

"I never heard of so mad a thing!" cries my reader. "Bank-notes, that pay our rent, buy our clothes, give us bread,-bank-notes, that procure for those who have them all sorts of comfort, and all sorts of pleasures,-to throw such good things into the fire !"

Shall I tell you that each of my readers has something as precious as bank-notes, which perhaps he is inclined to throw away just as thoughtlessly as these two foolish gentlemen did their money.

TIME is the poor man's precious bank-notes, and also the rich man's treasure. The penniless child has this if he has nothing else; and oh! how much may be made of it.

Look at that clean, cheerful youth, thriving so well in business, able to live in comfort, and to support his blind mother! He had not one shilling a few years ago,—nothing seemed before him but a poor-house. Oh, no; he had one treasure the bank-notes of Time,-and a famous use he made of them. He rose with the lark, that he might work hard and long: he wasted no moment of time. By industry, under God's blessing, he has made his way in the world. He has changed Time's bank-notes for gold!

See that poor blind girl, so cheerful under affliction, so full of hope and peace! How comes it that she is so happy, when many would be fretting and repining? While she had yet eye-sight, she read her Bible with prayer, and stored her memory with many precious verses, which are now to her like light in darkness. She has changed Time's bank-notes for gold!

When we labour to improve our minds,

When we work hard to gain an honest living,

When we help those who need our help; above all,

When we give our hearts to Christ,

When we pray, and praise, and read God's Holy Word, We are changing Time's bank-notes for gold!

VARIETIES.

PRINCIPLE AND PASSION.

The moment in which the claims of principle are triumphant over those of passion, is a point of time, in the history of character, the most interesting and auspicious. It contributes largely to the formation or settlement of the mind, and brings with it the elements of all that is good or exalted. Passion relaxes and enfeebles the spirit; prinIciple braces and invigorates it. Passion is dark, stormy, and vexatious-like the troubled sea which cannot rest; principle, like the rocks of our shore, stands out the bulwark of the soul in the night of adversity. Passion is the voice of that old serpent, ever the more dangerous when most beguiling: principle is the voice of God in the

soul of man, calling him off from the enchantments of earth and sense, to communion with and confidence in Him, without whom the strongest are weak, and the best protected will fail in the hour of trial.

MARTYN, THE DISTINGUISHED MISSIONARY'S EPITAPH.
Here Martyn lies in manhood's early bloom,
The Christian hero found a Pagan tomb.
Religion, sorrowing o'er her favʼrite son,
Points to the sacred trophies that he won,
Eternal trophies! not with slaughter red,
Not steep'd in tears by hapless captives shed,
The trophies of the Cross for Christ's dear name.
Onward he journey'd to a happier shore,

Where danger, death, and shame, assault no mose.

TO-MORROW.

"To-Morrow (says a Poet) never comes,"
Yet come it will, and come we hope with joy;
And all the tribes of Israel leave their homes,
To find in Zion's gates a sweet employ.

Hail peaceful day, that gives a short-liv'd truce
To all the bustle and the cares of time;
Ordain'd, in mercy, for the Christian's use,
The pledge and foretaste of a brighter clime.
Oh! that like Judah with the evening star,
Devotion's flame may kindle in our breast,
To-Morrow, then, will not be quite so far,
And when it comes t'will make us doubly blest.

GOD EVERYWHERE.

How widely diversified, and multiplied into many thousand distinct exercises, is the attention of God! His eye is on every hour of my existence,-his Spirit is intimately present with every thought of my heart,-his inspiration gives birth to every gracious purpose within me,—his hand impresses a direction on every footstep of my going -every breath I inhale is drawn by an energy which God deals out to me. This body, which upon the slightest derangement, would become the prey of death, or of

woeful suffering, is now at ease, because he at this moment is warding off from me a thousand dangers, and upholding the thousand movements of its complex and delicate machinery-his presiding influence keeps by me, through the whole current of my restless and ever changing history.

When I walk by the way side, He is along with me,when I enter into company, amid all my forgetfulness of Him, He never forgets me,-in the silent watches of the night when my eyelids have closed, and my spirit has sunk into unconsciousness, the observant eye of Him who never slumbers, is upon me; I cannot fly from His presence go where I will; He leads me and watches over me, and cares for me; and the same Being who is now at work in the remotest domains of nature and of providence, is also at hand to eke out to me every moment of my being, and to uphold me in the exercise of all my feelings, and of all my faculties.

THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies,

The Angels with us unawares.

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a Star,
A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love and fainting faith.

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually,

And glitters thro' the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes

To light us o'er the Jasper Sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf,

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come ;

And, ready for the harvest-home,

His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our Beautiful bird of light hath fled;
Awhile she sat with folded wings,-
Sang round us a few hoverings,—
Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-winged Angels nurture her,

With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd,
And all Love's purple glory round,

She summers on the Hills of Myrrh.

Thro' Childhood's morning-land, serene

She walked betwixt us twain, like Love;
While, in a robe of light above,

Her better Angel walked unseen.

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild ;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The Angel's arms caught up the child.
Her wave of life hath backward roll'd

To the great ocean, on whose shore
We wander up and down, to store
Some treasures of the times of old:
And aye we seek and hunger on

For precious pearls and relics rare,
Strewn on the sands for us to wear
At heart, for love of her that's gone.
Oh, weep no more! there yet is balm
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles,-spread
O'er desert pillows some green Palm!
God's icon fills the hearts that bleed,-

The best fruit loads the broken bough;
And in the wounds our sufferings plough,
Immortal Love sows sovereign seed.