it is only with the unrighteous that they take up their permanent abode. The blessings of one year were followed by the blessings of another; and, by industry and economy, James Morland was, in the course of comparatively a short period, a wealthier man than he had been in the revered habitation of his forefathers, and the home of his happiest associations. About seven years after he was driven forth in poverty, and (as far as its worldly interpretation goes) in despair, a variety of circumstances had occurred, to which we need allude no farther than to observe, that they led to the sale of the small estate on which this very cottage stood: James Morland was its purchaser, and his family continue to inhabit it to this day, —their situation higher in life, but their humility and their virtuous character the same.

The scene of the return of this good and happy family to the home of their childhood, was one that will never be forgotten by the individual who was fortunate enough to witness both that and their expulsion.

It was the evening of a calm day in spring, when they stopped at the gate. The younger children entered hastily, running to criticise the alterations that had been made, and to form plans of improvement in their garden. But the mother paused for a moment, and, with a tear of pleasure in her eye, looked over the hedge, and contemplated the familiar objects around her with a feeling that none could understand, but those who knew the circumstances connected with her history. After gazing for a short time, she turned her look toward heaven, clasped

her hands, and wept in gratitude and joy. She had wept when she quitted the spot, and she now wept on returning to it--she had been then resigned, and she was now thankful; but from how different a source did those tears proceed!-she had then faith in the promise, that she would not be forsaken, and she now saw that promise fulfilled.

Her husband had been busily unloading his car; but he had frequently interrupted her by asking if the honeysuckle was yet in bloom,-if his favourite rose-tree still lived,—if the lilies had their blossoms ;—or some question of equal interest to him who asked, as to her who was questioned.

Their dog must not be forgotten-their old dog, who had shared their adversity, and who now participated in their happiness. He marched with a slow and stately pace through each walk of the remembered garden, as if he recognized an acquaintance in every shrub and flower; then went and capered round his master, and then went and lay panting at the cottage door.

In a few minutes, the whole family were seated in their little parlour, to which an air of comfort had been already given. A prayer was said, and a hymn was sung, and they took possession of their dwelling.

P.D.

RESTORATION OF MALMESBURY ABBEY.

BY THE REV, W. L. BOWLES.

This majestic but dilapidated pile has been repaired at great expense, and with taste and judgment in every respect consonant to and worthy of its ancient character. These verses were written under the contemplation of this singularly beautiful and unique pile being opened again for public worship, by a sacred musical performance.

MONASTIC and time-consecrated Fane,
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august, as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.

No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The Host high-rais'd, or fuming censer swung;
No more,
in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order go;—
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,
As to admit heaven's pale but purer light:
Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows,
E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose,

M

Amid the silent sanctity of death,

Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath:
Those roofs re-echo (tho' no altars blaze)

The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile.

Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains?
Oh, Mightiest Master, thy immortal strains
These roofs demand. Listen, -with prelude slow,
Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow.
And hark! again, heard ye the choral chaunt
Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant?
More softly now, imploring litanies,

}

Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs
Of penitence, from yon high altar rise:
Again the vaulted roof" Hosannah" rings-
"Hosannah! Lord of Lords, and King of Kings!"
Rent, but not prostrate, stricken, yet sublime,
Reckless alike of injuries or time;

Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty,

The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy!
The temple of our Sion so shall mock

The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock,
Founded, O Christ! on thy eternal rock.

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THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom,

And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound,
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale Cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hushed-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,
And he too paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke: