See, your Saviour is ascended,

See, He looks with pity down!
Trust Him, all will soon be mended,
Bear His cross, you'll share His crown.

MICHAEL BRUCE.

ICHAEL BRUCE, a short-lived poet of remarkable promise, was born of humble parents in the village of Kinneswood, Kinross-shire, in 1746. During a curriculum of four years, he studied at Edinburgh University; he was subsequently employed as teacher of an adventure-school at Forrest Mill, near Alloa. He died of consumption in July 1767, in his twenty-first year. An obelisk denotes his grave in the churchyard of Portmoak. Simplicity and tenderness are the characteristics of his poetry.

ODE TO SPRING.

Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,

And count the silent moments as they pass.

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest,
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate,
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;
Led by pale ghosts I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes;

The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,

When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes; Rest in the hope of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.

JOHN LOGAN.

OHN LOGAN, an eminent Scottish clergyman and sacred poet, was born at Soutra, Mid-Lothian, in 1748. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, and being licensed Her to preach, was, in 1773, ordained to the pastoral charge of South Leith. In 1786 he resigned his charge, and proceeding to London, employed himself in literary pursuits. His death took place in December 1788. Logan is author of a considerable number of the Paraphrases of the Scottish Church. His published Sermons are models of Christian oratory.

HEAVENLY WISDOM.

O HAPPY is the man who hears
Instruction's warning voice;
And who celestial Wisdom makes
His early, only choice.

For she has treasures greater far
Than east or west unfold;
And her rewards more precious are
Than all their stores of gold.

In her right hand she holds to view
A length of happy days;

Riches, with splendid honours joined,
Are what her left displays.

She guides the young with innocence,
In pleasure's paths to tread ;

A crown of glory she bestows
Upon the hoary head.

D

According as her labours rise,

So her rewards increase;

Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace.

THE GREAT HIGH-PRIEST.

WHERE high the Heav'nly Temple stands,
The House of God not made with hands,
A great High-Priest our nature wears,
The Guardian of mankind appears.

He who for men their Surety stood,
And poured on earth his precious blood;
Pursues in heav'n his mighty plan,
The Saviour and the Friend of man.

Though now ascended up on high,
He bends on earth a Brother's eye;
Partaker of the human name,
He knows the frailty of our frame.

Our Fellow-suff'rer yet retains
A fellow-feeling of our pains;
And still remembers in the skies
His tears, and agonies, and cries.

In ev'ry pang that rends the heart,
The Man of Sorrows had a part;
He sympathises with our grief,
And to the suff'rer sends relief.

With boldness therefore at the throne
Let us make all our sorrows known;
And ask the aids of heav'nly power
To help us in the evil hour.

THE MOUNTAIN OF THE LORD.
BEHOLD! the mountain of the Lord
In latter days shall rise

Above the mountains and the hills,
And draw the wond'ring eyes.

To this the joyful nations round,
All tribes and tongues shall flow;
Up to the hill of God, they'll say,
"And to His house we'll go.

The beam that shines from Zion hill -
Shall lighten ev'ry land;

The King who reigns in Salem's tow'rs
Shall all the world command.

No strife shall rage, nor hostile feuds
Disturb those peaceful years;

To ploughshares men shall beat their swords,
To pruning-hooks their spears.

No longer hosts, encount'ring hosts,
Shall crowds of slain deplore;
They hang the trumpet in the hall,
And study war no more.

Come, then, oh come from ev'ry land,

To worship at His shrine;
And, walking in the light of God,
With holy beauties shine.

PRAYER OF THE BELIEVER.

O God of Abraham! by whose hand
Thy people still are fed;

Who through this weary pilgrimage
Hast all our fathers led: