And old Ontario's billowy lake

Prolong'd the thunder tone,

"The chieftains at our side who stood Upon our christening day,

Who

gave the glorious names we bear,

Our sponsors, where are they?”

And then the fair Ohio charg'd

Her many sisters dear,

"Show me once more, those stately forms

Within my mirror clear;"

But they replied, "tall barks of pride

Do cleave our waters blue,

And strong keels ride our farthest tide,
But where's their light canoe ?"

The farmer drove his plough-share deep "Whose bones are these?" said he, "I find them where my browsing sheep Roam o'er the upland lea."

But starting sudden to his path

A phantom seem'd to glide,
A plume of feathers on his head,
A quiver at his side.

He pointed to the rifled grave

Then rais'd his hand on high,

And with a hollow groan invok'd
The vengeance of the sky.

O'er the broad realm so long his own

Gaz'd with despairing ray,

Then on the mist that slowly curl'd,

Fled mournfully away.

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.

"Oh Death! how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man that

is at ease in his possessions."-ECCLESIASTICUS, iv., 1.

THE rich man moved in pomp. His soul was gorged With the gross fulness of material things,

So that it spread no pinion forth to seek

A better world than this. There was a change,

And in the sleepless chamber of disease,
Curtained and nursed, and ill-content he lay.
He had a wasted and an eager look,

And on the healer's brow he fixed a glance,
Keen-yet imploring.

What he greatly feared

Had come upon him. So he went his way—

The

way of all the earth-and his lands took Another's name.

Why dost thou come. O Death!

To print the bridal chamber with thy foot,
And leave the ruin of thy ministry,

Where love, and joy, and hope so late had hung
Their diamond cressets?

To the cradle side

Why need'st thou steal, changing to thine own hue
Of ghastly pale, the youthful mother's brow;
And for her nightly watching, leaving nought
In mocking payment, but a form of clay,

And the torn heart-strings in her bleeding breast?
-Come to the aged, he hath sorely trod
Time's rugged road, until his staff is broke,
And his feet palsied, and his friends all gone;
Lay thy cold finger on life's last faint spark,
And scarcely gasping he shall follow thee.
-Come to the saint, for he will meekly take
Thy message to his soul, and welcome thee
In Jesus' name, and bless the shadowy gate
Which thou dost open.

Wait awhile, O Death!

For those who love this fleeting world too well;

Wait, till it force their hearts to turn away

From all its empty promises, and loathe

Its deep hypocrisy. Oh! wait for those

Who have not tasted yet of Heaven's high grace, Nor bring them to their audit, all unclothed With a Redeemer's righteousness.

THE HOPIA TREE.

PLANTED OVER THE GRAVE OF MRS. ANN H. JUDSON.

"REST! Rest!-the Hopia tree is green,

And proudly waves its leafy screen,

Thy lowly bed above,

And by thy side, no more to weep,
Thine infant shares the gentle sleep,
Thy youngest bud of love.

"How oft its feeble wailing cry
Detain'd unseal'd thy watchful eye,

And pain'd that parting hour
When pallid death, with stealthy tread,
Descried thee on thy fever-bed,

And proved his fatal power.

"Ah! do I see with faded charm,

Thy head reclining on thine arm,

The Teacher* far away?

* "The last day or two of her life, she lay almost motionless, on