But where the tyrant's iron sway
Forbids the precious boon,

And strives to quench the heavenly ray
That pierc'd the native gloom;

And with stern cruelty demands,
On pain of dreadful death,

Their Bible from the trembling hands
Of those who own its faith.

But vain the powers of earth and hell To stop the Bible's course;

"Tis the "true light"-unquenchableResistless as its source!

By day those hapless sons of Ham
Bury their Bibles deep;

At night they dig them up again,
And read while tyrants sleep.
Ah! see the numerous sable groups
Beneath the moon's pale beam
Reading the charter of their hopes,
By their proud foes unseen!

Ye British Christians, who possess,
In its most perfect form
This sacred guide to life and peace,
Hear and a lesson learn:
No tyrant dares deny the meed
To you- 'tis freely given-
Oh! will you not delight to read,
And love this Guide to Heaven.

BOYS AND THE WATER.

Boys are very fond of water-they love to see it, or to ride on it, or to bathe in it. This is all very natural; but they should never forget that it is water: some seem as if they did not remember this. When they are riding in a boat over the waves, they should bear in mind that if their boat were to upset, they would sink in the deep waters below them. Boys should never venture into a boat without some careful person to guide it. How many lads have met with a watery grave, through their daring and careless conduct! The writer trembles as he remembers how often, when a boy, he was ex

posed on the very edge of destruction in this way. Once he, and several other thoughtless lads, were in a boat near the shore: he was sitting on the edge of it, in a careless posture, and did not know, till they had pulled the boat into the middle of a wide deep river, that they had left the shore. He never forgot that He never did so again.

Bathing is another practice attended with danger. Bathing is a good thing. It is cleanly and healthful, especially in hot countries. But some boys bathe too often, and injure their health and their constitution. Those boys who cannot swim should never bathe in waters beyond their depth, on any account. Let them stay till they have learned to swim, and then they should not venture too much, as the cramp may take them. I well remember a schoolfellow of mine-poor Harry Rogers! He was not at school one afternoon, and when we broke up we heard that he was drowned at the White Gates, whilst bathing in the Trent. We all ran to see, and there were men in a boat, with drags, trying to find him. One of the hooks caught his ancle and brought him up. O how did I feel when I saw his naked body lifted into the boat, and his belly swelled with water! They wrapped him in blankets, and carried him home, but he was quite dead. Had he been at school, or kept out of deep water, he might have been alive now. I never

passed White Gates after without thinking of poor Harry.

Let the boys who read this bear in mind that they ought not to expose themselves to danger. Many a father's and mother's heart has been almost broken by some sad accident befalling a careless child on the water. I shall never forget poor Harry's father, as he walked on the bank of the river, anxiously watching the men, as they tried to find his poor lad,-or how his elder brother wept fit to break his heart. Beside, it is a wrong thing in the sight of God, to set light upon the life he has given us. It is an awful thing to appear before our Maker until he calls us. Then, if washed in the blood of Jesus, we may receive the summons without fear or alarm.

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

LEAVING her sports, in pensive tune,
"Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
"How sad we are now we're alone-
I wish my mother were not dead!

I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled,
When she would fondly stroke my hair.
And call me her beloved child.

Before my mother went away,
You never sighed as now you do:
You used to join us at our play,
And be our merriest playmate too.

Father, I can remember when

I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die.

And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;

They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

O then I thought how she was kind,
My own belov'd and gentle mother!
And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne'er was such another!

Poor little Charles and I!-that day
We sate within our silent room;
But we could neither read or play-
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

I wish my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then; They say, and is it true, she cried,

That she should never come again?"

The father checked his tears, and thus
He spake," My child, they do not err;

You say she cannot come to us;

But you and I may go to her."