Joseph sold by his Brethren.

Oн, when the avenging flood

Swept the wide world, why swept it not away
The stain of innocent blood?-

The race of Cain hath perish'd; yet for aye

Endures the curse of Cain!

Brother sheds brother's blood, for vengeance, or for gain.

In Dothan's valleys lone

Their mingled flocks ten shepherd brethren feed,

And in the midst is one

Whom their unnatural hate had doom'd to bleed;

But sin hath sin withstood,

And by the thirst of gold is quench'd the thirst for blood.

Upon the victim's brow

In mystic vision blazed a regal crown;

They have the dreamer now,

Their knees to him shall ne'er in life bow down:

For none is nigh to save;

His sire is far away-his mother in the grave!

"Yet stay the avenging hand,"

One cried; "what profit if our brother bleed?
Behold yon merchant-band!

Let them this dreaming boy in bondage lead:

So we shall share the gain,

And he may dream at will-and dream, as now, in vain.”

JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN.

Oh, fierce and stern of mood,

Whom nor an absent father's hoary hair,

Nor brother's kindred blood,

Nor thought of Israel's God can win to spare!
Bears HE the sword in vain,

Or can ye do the deed, yet shun the curse of Cain?

Ere yet the deed is done

Ere yet your hands have touch'd the accursed gold, Think on the hapless son,

Torn from a doting sire-the brother, sold

By brethren, and the shame

Which must for ever brand the base betrayer's name.

Think of the aged man

Whose care for you hath sent his loved one hither!

Regard his waning span;

Doom not his dearest earthly hopes to wither:

Let pity plead to save,

Nor bring his hoary hairs with sorrow to the grave.

If love hath lost its force;

If nature's holiest ties no more restrain;

Yet dread the late remorse,

The conscious writhings, of the outcast Cain:

Still Abel's God in heaven

Is Israel's too, and still that crime is unforgiven.

Boy, vainly dost thou plead:

They have no thoughts of pity-cease thy prayer! The God who marks the deed

Will guide thy course to Egypt, guard thee there.

In bondage thou must dwell,

But they in every breast shall bear a living hell!

To the Flowers.

E flowers-ye little flowers

Were witnesses of things,

More glorious and more wondrous far
Than the fall and rise of kings!-

Ye, in the vales of Paradise,

Heard how the mountains rang, When the sons of God did shout for joy, And the stars of morning sang! Ye saw the creatures of the earth, Ere fear was felt, or pain;

Ye saw the lion with the lamb

Go sporting o'er the plain!
Ye were the first that from the earth

Sprang, when the floods were dried,
And the meek dove from out the ark
Went wandering far and wide;-
And when upon Mount Ararat

The floating ark was stay'd,

And the freshness of the flowering earth The Patriarch first survey'd,—

Ye saw across the heavens

The new-made bended bow,

Ye heard the Eternal bind himself,

Upon its glorious show,

That never more the waters wild

Should rage beyond their shore; That harvest-time and time of seed Should be for ever more.

MARY HOWITT.

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The Christian Martyr.

THE eyes of thousands shone on him, as mid the cirque he stood,
Unheeding all the shouts which rose from that vast multitude;
The prison damps had blanched his cheeks, and on his thoughtful face
Corroding care had left his signs in many a lasting trace.

Amid the crowded cirque he stood, and raised to heaven his eye,
For well that feeble old man knew they brought him there to die;
Yet joy was beaming in his glance, while from his lips a prayer
Arose to heaven and faith secured his peaceful dwelling there.
Then calmly on his foes he glanced; and as he gazed the tear
That stole adown his pale wan face spoke pity more than fear.
He knelt down on the gory sand, once more he look'd to heaven,
And to the Ever Friend he pray'd that they might be forgiven.
Now rises far a fearful shout mid which the lion's roar

Is heard, like thunder in the storm upon the rocky shore;

And forth the Lybian savage breaks and on his victim springs,
While all around from men more fierce, the voice of triumph rings.
Short time is left for fear or hope; the instinctive love of life
One struggle makes, but vainly makes, in such unequal strife;
The lion's feet, the lion's lips, are dyed with crimson gore,—
A look of faith, an unbreathed prayer, the martyr's pangs are o'er.
Proud princes and grave senators gazed on that fearful sight,
And even woman seemed to share the savage crowd's delight;
But what the guilt that on the dead a fate so fearful drew?
A blameless faith was all the crime the Christian martyr knew:
And where the crimson current flowed, upon that barren sand,
Up sprung a tree whose vigorous boughs soon overspread the land;
O'er distant isles its shadow fell, nor knew its roots decay,
Even when the Roman Cæsar's throne and empire pass'd away.

REV. HAMILTON BUCHANAN.