Farewell, old friend! more polish'd tone,
More graceful phrase, I well may own;
But never can expect to find

A heart more true, a voice more kind.
The choicest from the widow's store

Was ours; what could she give us more?
Her double-daisy's finest root,

Her lady's-ruffles' fairest shoot;

And the sweet-william's blossom bound
With sprays of thyme and boy's-love round.
Farewell! I cannot mourn indeed

From toil the way-worn pilgrim freed ;—
Thanks to our God, who for the way
Gave strength, just lasting out the day.
Now, wondrous and stupendous change-
How thy glad spirit takes its range,
Far from this prison house of clay;
Far from earth's bounds away, away!
Now, whilst the undazzled eyes behold
In very deed the streets of gold;
Whilst waited and expected long
Bursts on thy ear the archangels' song;
Whilst thou thy Saviour hast confest
Amongst ten thousand loveliest, best,-
Hast thou, as earthly love believed,
Thine own old Samuel's form perceived?
Or dost thou turn thine eye below,
My welfare and my state to know;
And pause, a blessing kind to shed,
My guardian angel's, on my head?

I question not! to travel on

The lowly path that thou hast gone;
To see hope's pure and heavenly ray
Shining on all the toilsome way,
To follow with unweary feet
Until I walk the golden street.

It is enough;-rejoicing heart
Own thou with joy the appointed part.
"I will not leave-I'll ne'er forsake,"-
Oh freely made, the promise take;
Her mighty Saviour is thy Guide,
His word stands sure, "I will provide !"

THURSDAY, November 29, 1832.

THE COLLIER BOYS.

As journeying on our path below,
With pilgrim feet we tread,

What varied form of grief we know,-
Dying men amongst the dead.

I HAVE found nothing particular to write. about for a long time; and I began to wonder whether the mine was exhausted, or whether I was only idle, and weary of looking for the ore any further. Was it because the world of poetry, that I used to see around me, was really transformed into dull reality; or had I so many duties that bore the low stamp of earth upon them, that I could no longer waste my time in stargazing;—so much digging and trenching in the vegetable garden, that there was no longer time for ornamenting bowers and wreathing garlands? I could not exactly tell; but I had written no prose, and scarcely a line of verse, for a very long time. It was just when I was pondering

thus over causes and effects, that a circumstance occurred to direct my thoughts and feelings from myself and my narrow concerns, to those of a large body of my neighbours. The afternoon service was over, and we set out for a short walk, down the lane by the withy bed that we have trodden so often. The high straggling hedges on both sides have been cut down, and the primroses and blue-bells once more look gay amongst the mossy stumps of the knotted roots. The road has been much raised, so that the view is more extensive than formerly: you see all across the fields and towards the city;—not that I think that any great advantage, being fond of sheltered places-though I do not lament it as seriously as poor Hetty used to, who wondered why we could not be content with the same roads our fathers had ever since the world was made, and lamented the folly of making new, when, as she used to add in a soleınn and mysterious tone," and by all I can hear, they won't be long to last neither !"

It was a clear breezy evening; bright masses of clouds, looking like thrones for angels, were sailing along the pure, blue sky. The young wheat was beginning to make the gentle falls of

the hilly grounds of the softest green; and all along the hedges were gathering that sweet and gay company, which come to bid us rejoice in the mercy of that God who, though they toil not, neither spin, has arrayed them in beauty that even Solomon in all his glory could not equal. Those happiest of God's brute creatures, the birds, told us by voice and motion how glad they were that it had pleased him to create them. It was weather that lightens the heart and exhilirates the spirits: and I remember that as I had knelt that day to pray for all that were troubled in mind, body, or estate, it was with a general— not an individual feeling. There are many times when each touching expression of our liturgy turns the worshipper's mind at that moment to "his own grief and his own sore;" but this day had not been one of them. It is in such weather, that, if ever, it seems possible that the stories of the golden age might have been true; just for the few hours when the sun is not too hot, and the wind is not too cold; when there is no blight yet on the blossoms; and the weeds are only beauties and not annoyances. Perhaps, too, all outward appearance of sorrow may be for a little hidden from us,-but it can be but for a little.

C