soon became apparent. "Were I," he writes, "to paint Fame crowning an under-graduate after the senate-house examination, I would represent her as concealing a Death's head under the mask of beauty."

In July, 1807, his health, which had for some time been precarious, became so much worse, that he was advised to make a journey to London for relaxation and change of scene. The fatigue of this journey he never recovered. On his return to his college he was unable to attend the lectures; and when his brother, who was immediately apprized of his alarming illness, came to visit him, he found him delirious. Henry afterwards enjoyed one lucid interval; and then fell into a stupor from which he never recovered. He died on the 9th of October, 1807, in the twenty-second year of his age. A tablet to his memory has been placed in All Saints College by a young American traveller.

THE CHRISTIAN PROGRESS.

THROUGH Sorrow's night, and danger's path, Amid the deepening gloom,

We, soldiers of an injured King,

Are marching to the tomb.

There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.

Our labours done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,

For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise
To see its kindred sky.

These ashes too, this little dust,
Our Father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise, and break
The long and dreary sleep.

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye
Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O LORD, another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt Thou bend a listening ear,
To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;

And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine
In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's

sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

SONNET.

WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONE! and where thy

seat?

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet; Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead noon,

Or, on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost thou repose? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

HYMN.

AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;

We sing the Saviour of our race,

The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, O where, shall man retire, To escape the horrors of his ire ?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,

And need no more a hiding-place.