Her mariners, Jehovah chose,
Her pilot is the Lord;
She touches islands as she goes.
Sinners to take on board.

Truth is her compass, love her sail,
And heavenly grace her store;
The Spirit's influence the gale

That wafts her to the shore.

Nor winds aor waves her progress check,
Her course she must pursue;
And though she often fears a wreck,
She's saved, with all her crew.

On boards and broken pieces tost,
And death each hour at hand;
Yet none who trust to Christ are lost,
But all come safe to land.

Each soul to Christ the Lord is given,
And purchased with His blood;
The vessel is insured in heaven,
And God will make it good.

PROFESSOR WILSON.

NE of the most heart-stirring of Scottish writers, and an elegant poet, John Wilson was born at Paisley, on the 18th May 1785. He was educated at Glasgow University and Magdalen College, Oxford. In 1808, having succeeded, by his father's demise, to an ample fortune, he purchased the beautiful estate of

Eilerlay, in Westmoreland. He was called to the Scottish bar in 1815, but he did not seek practice as a lawyer. In 1816, he appeared as the author of The City of the Plague, a dramatic poem ; in the following year, he became one of the original staff of contributors to Blackwood's Magazine. His reputation as an able and accomplished writer secured him, in 1820, the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. He died at Edinburgh on the 3d of April 1854. As a contributor to periodical literature, Wilson will find admirers while the English language is understood.

MAGDALENE'S HYMN.

THE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;
By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, 'Prepare to die.'

The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wondrous fair,
Hath faded ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave,
With thin locks silvery gray;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music, all are gone;

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet,
Like fragrance fill the room;
And happy ghosts, with noiseless feet,
Come brightening from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came;
We veil our eyes before Thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanished years,
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children, for some bauble fair,
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.

CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES.

CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES was born in 1786. In 1820 she first appeared as an author; she subsequently attained wide celebrity as a poet. She became, in 1839, the second wife of the poet Southey. Her death took place in 1854. Her poetry is characterised by simplicity and gracefulness.

THE MARINER'S HYMN.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner,
Christian-God-speed thee;
Let loose the rudder-bands,
Good angels lead thee.
Set thy sails warily,

Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily,
Christian, steer home.

Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there,
Hold the helm fast;
So-let the vessel wear,
There swept the blast.

'What of the night, watchman!
What of the night?'

'Cloudy-all quiet,

No land yet-all's right.'

But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet,
Like fragrance fill the room;
And happy ghosts, with noiseless feet,
Come brightening from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came;
We veil our eyes before Thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name!

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanished years,
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children, for some bauble fair,
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.