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(Psalm cvii. 30.)

The ripples gently glide,

No angry billows foam, While I on life's serenest tide,

Am wafted home.

The silver moonbeams play

O'er ocean's sleeping breast, Which glitters as the orb of day,

Sinks in the west.

Anon the storm winds beat,

The heaving surges roar,
But soon this life, so short, so fleet,

Shall be no more.
On! 'mid the heaving surge,

On! 'mid the storm winds high, Onward, still on, my course I urge,

For Christ is nigh. I would not linger here,

To watch the moon's soft light, Nor heed the ripples sparkling clear,

At sunset bright.
I would not wildly fear,

Amid the tempest's roar,
For every billow brings me near

The blissful shore.
Soon shall I anchor there,

Where heavenly breezes blow, And leave my every weight of care,

My every woe.

C. B. C.


Where are the ones so loved in other years,
Where are their beaming smiles, their bitter tears ;
The voices lifted oft in fervent prayers,
The mighty deeds of some, their joys and cares ?

Our Fathers, where are they?

Where shall we seek them? Hill and stately wood
Stand now as they for ages long have stood;
But here our Fathers' feet no longer rove,
Their steps have passed away from hill and grove.

Where then, oh, where are they?

Shall we look for them, then, in lovelier lands
Making through all the earth our loud demands ?
Alas! no voice gives answer to our cry,
Echo returns the sad sound tremblingly--

Oh! tell us, where are they?

Come, let us go to the low grassy mound,
Where sweet but awful memories gather round;
Where the dark vault, in its sepulchral shade,
Tells for the slumbering dead that it was made-

There, there our Fathers lie.

But hark, what tones are those whose thankful song.
Peals, through the arch of heaven borne along
By winds celestial ? O'er the silent graves
In rapturous melody the music waves -

• Our Fathers, these are they?"

Yes ; dust returned to dust, but the freed soul
Hath passed across the seas which ever roll,
On this our mortal home, whilst songs of love
Welcomed each victor to his crown above.
'Twas thus our Fathers passed from this sad land away,
Then let us ask no more, Our Fathers, where are they?'



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JUNE, 1848.


(With a view of Teston Bridge.) The gentle scenery of the Medway is perhaps not unknown to some of our readers. Our engraving represents a very pleasing specimen of its general character, taken from the meadows a few miles above Maidstone. The graphic description which follows, copied from a local almanack, is from the pen of Mr. W. H. Bensted, a gentleman not unknown in the literary world, and especially in those departments of it which relate to geology.

“ By following the first trickling stream of our river Medway, we are led through a country abounding in hills, all rising with undulating sides, looking like a succession of mighty billows petrified by the fiat of a Great Power which arrested their rolling and upheaved bosoms, and converted them into monuments of the tremendous force that lifted them from the depths of the earth. And thus we may see, from ruin and desolation, the foundations of verdant fields, and lovely vales were formed. The hill of Crowboro', in Sussex, which is 800 feet above the level of the sea, is the apex of this upheaved sand stone, and the force which shattered its base into the many hills


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