Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd; not a word he spake ;
Just perishing for want of bread,
I him all ;
gave
he bless'd it, brake,
And ate; but gave me part again:
Mine was an angel's portion then ;
For, while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,

He heard it, saw it hurrying on :

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it brimming o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night-the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof.

I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest-
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seem’d
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side;
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment-he was heal'd:
I had myself a wound conceal'd,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honour'd him 'midst shame and scorn.
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd if I for him would die?

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, "I will!"

Then in a moment, to my view,

The stranger darted from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew

My Saviour stood before my eyes! He spake—and my poor name He named,— "Of Me thou hast not been ashamed: These deeds shall thy memorial be: Fear not, thou didst them unto Me!"

SANCTIFIED AFFLICTION.

He that from dross would win the precious ore,
Bends o'er the crucible an earnest eye,
The subtle searching process to explore,

Lest the one brilliant moment should pass by,
When in the molten silver's virgin mass,
He meets his pictured face as in a glass.

Thus in God's furnace are His people tried :
Thrice happy they who to the end endure.
But who the fiery trial may abide ?

Who from the crucible come forth so pure,

That He whose eyes of flame look through the whole, May see His image perfect in the soul?

Nor with an evanescent glimpse alone,

As in that mirror the refiner's face;

But, stamp'd with heaven's broad signet, there be shown

Immanuel's features, full of truth and grace; And round that seal of love this motto be, "Not for a moment, but-eternity!"

NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Down on our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife:

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are !

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught,

That poets sang and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory where sleep,
The joys of other years;

Hopes, that were angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;

O'er the ocean's dark expanse
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full-moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care,

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, midst his slumb'ring host,
Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;

When, from the eye, the soul

Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole,

Discerns beyond the' abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray ;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away:

So will His followers do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends;—such death be mine!

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
Born, 1772; Died, 1834.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

AND hark! the Nightingale begins his song;
Most musical, most melancholy bird!

A melancholy bird? O! idle thought.—

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced

With the remembrance of some grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love;

(And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with himself,

And made all gentle sounds give back the tale

Of his own sorrow ;) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain;
And many a poet echoes the conceit.

We have learnt

A different lore; we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance. 'Tis the merry nightingale,