and all that therein is, and all the trees of the wood shall rejoice. Meanwhile, foretastes of this bliss are sometimes, even now, given to the Christian: and, as he walks abroad on the Sabbath-morning, a reflection of his own spirit is thrown on all around: he dwells on a worshipping earth; and, in the words of the poet, he is ready to exclaim, "Ye birds that singing up to heaven's gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; With every plant in sign of worship wave." With such a spirit, how fully can he enter into the words of the Church, “All the earth doth worship Thee: the Father everlasting." In these happy moments, the heart of the Christian is not only in harmony with God's beautiful creation on the strong wings of faith he rises to yet loftier communion, to worlds which the eye of science or of reason could never have explored. There he beholds myriads of angelic beings, glorious in brightness, excellent in strength. Their spiritual nature is a strange mystery to him; he knows how the most eminent saints of old have trembled at their dazzling brightness, and that he is but a feeble child of the dust. Yet he can claim fellowship with these angelic hosts. His stammering lips breathe the same words, which peal through the heavenly arches, and he seems to catch the distant echo of that music, as he exclaims, “To thee all angels cry aloud: the heavens, and all the powers therein. "To thee Cherubin, and Seraphin: continually do. cry, “ "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth; "Heaven and earth are full of the Majesty of thy glory." And now another chord of joy must be struck: the choir of praise is not yet full: apostles, prophets, and martyrs, must join the strain. On earth their songs of praise ascended, even from the dungeon, and amidst the flames; and, though it be now silenced to human ears, yet they still live unto God, and in the blessed work of praise we have still communion with them. If we feel a secret thrill of pleasure when our names are associated with the great ones of the earth—if it be a nobler enjoyment to hold intercourse with those eminent for learning and wisdom, and a deeper joy still to hold sweet communion with the saints of God; how ready should we be to join the glorious company here presented to us! True, we cannot see them with our mortal eye ; we seem to be only surrounded by a few poor sin-worn pilgrims like ourselves, but is it not the very character of faith to realize that which is invisible, to be the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of that which is not seen? And, suppose these blessed ones dwelt again amongst us, the world would not call them as it does now, the glorious company of the apostles, the goodly fellowship of the prophets, and the noble army of martyrs. They would be the illiterate schismatics of Galilee, the wild Jewish enthusiasts, the degraded criminals, the off-scouring and filth of all things. Faith only could realise their true glory when on earth, and faith must enable us to hold communion with them now they are removed from us, and to believe that, in the work of praise, they are still one with the holy church throughout all the world that acknowledges God. Throughout all the world, more than ten thousand congregations in our own land are repeating with us, the very words of this glorious anthem of praise. Thousands of other Christian congregations in Britain are praising God, though in a somewhat different form. The anthem of praise is rising, not only from the continent of Europe, and the enlightened states of America, but in regions where, a few years back, the missionary seemed to be toiling in vain to convey any conception of God, to the benighted Hottentot ;-on the bloodstained banks of the Ganges; on the shores of once cannibal New Zealand,—and in the low huts of the Esquimaux. These are all our brethren, for they all acknowledge our common Father, and our united song of praise is the sweetest incense earth offers unto the triune God. The choir of worshippers is full and noble, from the unconscious adoration of the lower creatures to the loftiest hymns of Cherubin and Seraphin; but all their united powers must fall short of his glory, whom they praise. "The Father of an infinite Majesty. "Thine honourable, true, and only Son. "Also the Holy Ghost, the Comforter." The Comforter-is there not a peculiar tenderness in this closing word: the strains are lofty, but sinners may join in them, even in a world of sin and woe; for He, whom they celebrate, is the Comforter. His brightness is dazzling, but like the brightness of the sun, it warms and cheers. His glory, his majesty, his greatness, they are all our own; and, while we veil our faces before Jehovah, we rest in blessed confidence upon the Comforter. LETHÈ, A POEM. How far may Christians, lawfully and wisely, pursue the reading of general poetry, and other works of an imaginative kind? This question has received the most opposite answers. Some have pleaded for the very widest latitude, while others have recommended the most rigid and narrow restrictions. We do not purpose to open this controversy. One truth, perhaps, has been too much forgotten on both sides, that what we read is, practically, far less important than the manner in which we read it. Unstable souls, we know, may wrest even the Scriptures to their own destruction. On the other hand, a spiritual mind, like the bee, can extract honey from the meanest flowers, and win the brightest jewels of thought even from merely Egyptian poets, meet to adorn their own souls, the tabernacles of God, with a rich variety of holy meditations, and deep and pure emotions of worship and praise. All real beauty, when the mind is in a healthy state, must lead it upward to the Fountain of all goodness, while a diseased appetite will turn even the choicest food into deadly poison. If young Christians, in reading poetry, would only cultivate a freer and wider range of meditation-if they would compare with each other their various impressions of truth and beauty, or the reverse, suggested by every passage which they meet with in their favourite authors -if they would follow out freely those kindred trains of thought, which may be suggested by every new crea tion of fancy-and, above all, if they would bring together their own hearts, the sentiments of the poet, and the truths of God's holy word, making each a mirror to all the rest-they would find an ample field, even in our purest and most religious poets; and would be far more likely to avoid the evil, and to be enriched with real stores of beautiful thought and deep emotion, if they felt it right to extend their reading more widely, and to acquaint themselves with a larger variety of works of imagination. It will be the object of this, and perhaps a few other papers, to assist the younger readers of the Magazine, in this useful exercise. The two small volumes of poetry, by the late Miss Woodrooffe, one of which has just been published, under the title of 'Dramatic Poems ;' and the other which appeared about two years ago, will furnish us with materials, exactly suited to our present design. We shall begin with the earlier volume, and Lethè, its principal poem. Those who have not seen it, will thank us for opening to them such a pure spring of thought, and those who have seen it will not be sorry to be reminded of it once more. The leading idea of the poem is one of singular freshness and beauty. A Greek, on the shores of the Ægean, is pictured in all the fulness of his domestic felicity. But his earthly treasures pass away from him. The Persian invaders sweep suddenly over the plains of Hellas; his wife is led away into hopeless captivity; his betrothed sister is widowed on the eve of her bridal day, and perishes in battle to revenge her lover's death. After the shouts of victory, which proclaim his country's triumph, he finds himself desolate on the threshold of what was once his home. He plunges into mirth, he questions all the schools of philosophy, to find some |