Leaflets for Letters. (Poetry, No. 2.)

THE EXILE.

My soul amid this stormy world
Is like some flutter'd dove;
And fain would be as swift of wing,
To flee to him I love.

The cords that bound my heart to earth
Were broken by his hand;
Before his cross I found myself

A stranger in the land.

That visage marr'd, those sorrows deep,

The vinegar and gall,

Were Jesus' golden chains of love,

His captive to enthral.

My heart is with him on his throne,
And ill can brook delay;

Each moment listening for the voice"Rise up and come away."

With hope deferr'd oft sick and faint,

"Why tarries he?" I cry;

And should the Saviour chide my haste, Then would I make reply