The ransomed shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

BY HENRY WARE.

To prayer, to prayer;-for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of his early air,
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer;-for the glorious sun is gone,

And the gathering darkness of night comes on:
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.

To prayer;-for the day that God has blessed
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest:
It speaks of creation's early bloom;

It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies:
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows;-
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.
Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And bear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends:
There is peace in his eye that upwards bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;

For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where He shall reign,
Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again.”

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.

Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.

To Him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

THREE WESTMINSTER BOYS.

[Mrs. Christian Isobel Johnstone, born in Fifeshire, 1781; died at Edinburgh, 26th August, 1857. Novelist and miscellaneous writer. Her chief works are: Clan Albyn; Elizabeth de Bruce; Lives and Voyages of Drake, Cavendish, and Dampier; Nights of the Round Table, a series of tales and sketches, from which we quote; the Edinburgh Tales; Meg Dodds' Cookery Book; &c. She was also the director and chief contributor to the Schoolmaster, one of the earliest of the cheap periodicals, Johnstone's and Tail's Magazines.]

The Magic Lantern which belonged to Mr. Dodsley, was elegantly and ingeniously formed. He chose to exhibit its wonders himself; and story, and picture, aiding and illustrating each other, agreeably occupied several NIGHTS OF

THE ROUND TABLE.

"Peep, and tell us what you see, Charles," said the reverend showman to our old friend Charles Herbert-"An old building, forms, desks, a lofty large room, many boys and youths, and three apart and prominent.""Let me look," cried Sophia,- "Westminster School, I declare! and those three boys!-one very noble and graceful; the next dark, thoughtful, resolute, with keen eyes, and compressed lips; and the third-O! how gently, yet brightly he smiles, dear bashful boy, as his dark, bold companion extends his arm, haranguing and pointing forward to some high distant object! A picture is it,-a figure in state robes?-or is it to the insignia blazoned on that desk?— Nay, I daresay he wishes to be head-master.' Have you all seen the three school-fellows?" asked Mr. Dodsley; "look at them well, for here they part on the path of life, never to meet again. Presto! change:-What see you now, Sophia?"-"Still the dark, stern youth, and the gentle timid one:-they are older now, but I know them well. The noble-looking boy has disappeared. The' scene seems chambers in the Temple. Through an open window I have a glimpse of gardens: piles of huge books