For the sunless cave was the Martyr's home,
And the damp cold earth his bed ;

And the thousand lights of the starry dome
Were the suns of his path, while doomed to roam
O'er the wilds where his brothers bled!-

When the clang of the conflict rung on the heath, And the watchword of freedom rose,

Like the tones of heaven, on the saint's last breath, Far, far o'er the battle-notes of death,

As he soar'd to his last repose!

The vision pass'd; but the home is mine,
Where the wild bird makes her nest,

On the rocky altars and

mossy shrine,

Where the weeds and flowers of the desert twine Round the Martyr's bed of rest.

The lover of freedom can never forget
The glorious peasant-band-

His sires

Each name,

that on Scotia's moorlands met ;

like a seal on the heart, is set,

The pride of his father-land!

ANGELIC MINISTRY.

Spenser.

AND is there care in heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is: else much more wretched were the case
Of men, than beasts. But O! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God! that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave,
To come to succour us, that succour want?
How oft do they, with golden pinions, cleave,
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant?

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,
And all for love, and nothing for reward:

O why should heavenly God to men have such regard.

HYMN TO SUNSET.

CALM, pensive, prayer-inspiring hour,
Day's fairest, first of daughters, hail!
Thy voice is song from hawthorn bower,

Thy breath is balm from primrose dale,

And voice and breath fall sweet when blended in the gale.

Thy sigh the breeze, whose whispers stray
O'er the lone stream, or, lingering, die;
Thy smile, the pure, bright, parting ray
From earth that streams into the sky,

As if its glance would paint Heaven's glories on

O be it mine to walk with thee!

On dewy footstep through the vale, When the long shadow marks the lea

Where willows droop their foliage pale,

And o'er the stream white clouds on noiseless

pinions sail.

Soul-touching hour! about me fold

Thy shadowy mantle; let thy blue, Pale vestment, with its weft of gold,

From dewy fringe dim-shining through, Be o'er me cast, and bathe my spirit in its hue.

And take me by the hand, where'er
By valley, stream, or upland dell,
Thou goest, with brow serenely fair,

To bid the bird's green haunts farewell,
Or kiss the young wild flowers that solitary dwell.

And lead me to the mountain crest,

Gray sentinel of land and sea, Where thy last beam delights to rest,

Where thy last look is sure to be,

And I will sit and weave a poet's wreath for thee.

Sweet hour! thy voice, thy breath of balm,

Thy sigh of breeze, thy smile of light,

Thy waving robe, have each a charm

That wings my spirit on its flight

To him who bade thee be—so beautiful and bright.

VALIANT FOR THE TRUTH.

J. Montgomery.

FIGHT the good fight;-lay hold

Upon eternal life;

Keep but thy shield, be bold,

Stand through the hottest strife; Invincible while in the field,

Thou canst not fail,-unless thou yield.

No force of earth or hell,

Though fiends with men unite, Truth's champion can compel, However press'd, to flight; Invincible upon the field,

He must prevail,—unless he yield.

Apollyon's arm may shower

Darts thick as hail, and hide

Heaven's face, as in the hour

When Christ on Calvary died;

No powers of darkness, in the field,

Can tread thee down,-unless thou yield.