Gently the bark o'er the water creeps,
While the swelling sail they spread,
And the wearied Saviour gently sleeps,
With a pillow 'neath His head.

On downy bed the world seeks rest,
Sleep flies the guilty eye,

But he who leans on the Father's breast
May sleep when storms are nigh.

But soon the lowering sky grew dark
O'er Bashan's rocky brow,

The storm rushed down upon the bark,
And waves dashed o'er the prow.

The pale disciples trembling spake,
While yawned the watery grave,
"We perish, Master,-Master, wake!
Carest Thou not to save ?"

Calmly He rose, with sovereign will,
And hushed the storm to rest.

"Ye waves," He whispered, "Peace! be still!" They calmed like a pardoned breast.

So have I seen a fearful storm
O'er wakened sinner roll,
Till Jesus' voice, and Jesus' form
Said, "Peace, thou weary soul."

And now He bends His gentle eye
His wondering followers o'er,
"Why raise this unbelieving cry?
I said to yonder shore."

When first the Saviour wakened me.

And showed me why he died,

He pointed o'er life's narrow sea,

And said, 66 to yonder side."

Peace, peace! be still thou raging breast,

My fulness is for thee,"

The Saviour speaks, and all is rest.

Like the waves of Galilee

Robert Nicoll.

Born 1814.

Died 1837.

A NATIVE of Auchtergaven in Perthshire, who amid many difficulties worked himself up into the position of editor of the "Leeds Times," to which he devoted himself heart and soul. His poems are short pieces and songs, which show some talent. He died in his twenty-fourth year

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

HIGH thoughts!

They come and go,

Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,
While round me flow

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden;
When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come-
When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-
When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky,
Watch over all with soft and loving eye-
While the leaves quiver

By the lone river,

High thoughts!

And the quiet heart

From depths doth call

And garners all—
Earth grows a shadow
Forgotten whole,

And heaven lives

In the blessed soul!

They are with me

When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy morning melody

Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest.
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees-
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees-
When every branch has its own favourite bird,
And songs of summer from each thicket heard!-
Where the owl flitteth,

Where the rose sitteth,

And holiness

Seems sleeping there,

While nature's prayer

When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,
And see below me strown

The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow—

When I can follow every fitful shadow

When I can watch the winds among the corn,

And see the waves along the forest borne;

Where bluebell and heather

Are blooming together,

And far doth come

The Sabbath bell,
O'er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of nature's heart;
Heaven is before me-
God! Thou art!

Philip James Bailey.

Born 1816.

BORN in Nottingham, on 22d April 1816. He matriculated at the University of Glasgow, and afterwards studied for the English bar, to which he was called in 1840. In 1839 he published Festus," an extraordinary poem, abounding in grand and splendid ideas. It met with great success, and he at once took a high place among the poets of our age. In 1855 appeared "The Mystic," and in 1858 The Age," both of which sustain his reputation.

Genius.

FROM "FESTUS."

It is the strain

Of all high spirits towards Him. Thou couldst not,
Even if thou wouldst, behold God: masked in dust,
Thine eye did light on darkness: but when dead,
And the dust shaken off the shining essence,
God shall glow through thee as through living glass,
And every thought and atom of thy being
Shall guest His glory, be overbright with God

Hadst thou not been by faith immortalised

For the instant, then thine eye had been thy death.
Come, I will shew thee heaven and all angels.
Lo! the recording angel.

Festus

Him I see

High-seated, and the pen within his hand

Plumed like a storm-portending cloud which curven
Half over heaven, and swift in use divine

As is a warrior's spear!

Genius.

The book wherein

Are writ the records of the universe

Lies like a world laid open at his feet.

And there, the Book of Life which holds the names,
Form'd out in starry brilliants, of God's sons--
The spirit-names which angels learn by heart,
Of worlds beforehand. Wilt thou see thine own!
Festus. My name is written in the Book of Life
It is enough. That constellated word

Is more to me and clearer than all stars,
Henceforward and for aye.

Frances Browne.

Born 1816

A BLIND poetess, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar in Donegal When only eighteen months old she lost her sight from smallpox, yet as she advanced in life she became noted for her rapid acquisition of knowledge. In 1840 she published in the Irish Penny Journal "Songs of our Land;" in 1841 she sent some pieces to the "Athenæum," which were much admired; and in 1844 she published a volume of her poems. In 1847 she issued a second volume of poems, all remarkable for rich poetic diction, and for vigorous thought and deep feeling. The following piece refers to an Irish exile.

THE LAST FRIENDS.

I COME to my country, but not with the hope
That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow,
For the vigour of soul that seemed mighty to cope
With time and with fortune hath fled from me now;
And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore,
Hath perished, and left but a weary regret
For the star that can rise on my midnight no more-
But the hills of my country they welcome me yet!

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still,

When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ; From the wide spreading deserts and ruins, that fill

The lands of old story they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West, They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved bestBut I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet!

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave;
For serving the strangers through wandering and war,
The isle of their memory could grant them no grave.
And I, I return with the memory of years,

Whose hope rose so high though in sorrow it set; They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears-But our mountains remember their promises yet!

Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old,
And where are the faces my childhood hath seen?
For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold
But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still
green;

Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth,

When brothers in heart in their shadows we met; And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet!

Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now

Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow,

For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand · Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle

Efface the dark seal that oppression hath set;
Give back the lost glory again to the soil,
For the hills of my country remember it yet!