THOMAS RAWSON TAYLOR.

THE early years of THOMAS RAWSON TAYLOR, eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, of Bradford, Yorkshire, may be chronicled in his own words. "I was born at Ossett, near Wakefield [9th May, 1807], and am still called by a host of linty clothiers their own barn, When I was about a year old, my father removed to Bradford, where I subsequently became the brother of three brothers and three sisters, most of whom remain till this present, but some have fallen asleep in Jesus. I was educated, as it is called, at Leaf Square, near Manchester, where I abode three years. At the age of fifteen, I entered a merchant's counting-house as clerk, and a year after I became an apprentice to Mr. Dunn, of Nottingham. My sojourn there was, on many accounts, the most important period of my life." This Nottingham family resembled, in piety and domestic virtues, that of his father, and hence the religious tastes and tendencies acquired at home were here still more strengthened. Three years afterwards, by the cheerful consent of all parties, he gave up his secular occupation, that of printing, for the ministry, and entered as a student of Airedale College. Here he remained till 1830, preaching occasionally in many villages of the neighbourhood, and giving evidence of rare talents and still rarer gifts of the Spirit. But his days were numbered. He had been already sum moned to join those of his family who had gone before him. In July, 1830, he became, at the earnest and repeated request of the congregation of Haward Street Chapel, Sheffield, their minister, but in January of the following year was compelled by his failing health to resiga his duties amongst them. From this time his health gradually sunk, with occasional panses of temporary recovery, till on March 7th, 1835, he too fell asleep. A volume of his "Remains," with a memoir, has been published, London, 1836, 8vo.

LIFE A PILGRIMAGE.

I'M but a stranger here,

Heaven is my home;
Earth is a desert drear,

Heaven is my home.
Danger and sorrow stand
Round me on every hand;
Heaven is my fatherland,
Heaven is my home.

What though the tempest rage,
Heaven is my home;

Short is my pilgrimage,

Heaven is my home.

And time's wild wintry blast

Soon shall be overpast;

I shall reach home at last,

Heaven is my home.

There, at my Saviour's side,
Heaven is my home;
I shall be glorified,

Heaven is my home.
There are the good and blest,
Those I love most and best;
And there I too shall rest-
Heaven is my home.

Therefore I murmur not,
Heaven is my home;
Whate'er my earthly lot,
Heaven is my home.
And I shall surely stand

There at my Lord's right hand
Heaven is my fatherland,
Heaven is my home.

FOR A SABBATH-SCHOOL.

YES! it is good to worship Thee,
To tread Thy courts, O Lord!
To raise the voice, to bend the knee,
To hear Thy holy word;

We praise Thee that another year
Has brought this blest assembly here.

'Tis sweet, O God, to sing Thy praise,
Till all our spirits glow,

And we could almost seem to raise
The notes of heaven below ;
Hearts all on fire, and feelings strong,
And our souls melting in our song.

'Tis sweet when every voice is heard,

The aged and the young; Sweeter when every soul is stirred

To feel what we have sung,

And thoughts of heaven the hearts engage Of smiling youth and hoary age.

But oh! if songs like ours be sweet,
How sweet that song must be,
Where all the ransom'd ones shall meet,
From sin and sorrow free,
Where nought of sorrow can intrude

To mar that mighty multitude.

How vast that heavenly temple is,
How ravishing the song!
Oh how unspeakable the bliss
Of that exulting throng,
Waking for evermore the strain

Of praise to Him who once was slain!

Ours, Saviour, may these raptures be,
When other joys are past;

And, having lived on earth to Thee,

May we exchange at last

This house, these hours, of praise and prayer
For holier, happier worship there.

GODFREY THRING.

THE REV. GODFREY THRING is son of the Rev. John Gale Dalton Thring, formerly Rector of Alford. He was born at Alford, and was educated at Shrewsbury school In 1842, he entered Baliol College, Oxford, and graduated in 1846. He was ordained, in 1847, as curate of Stratfield Turgis. He now holds the living of Alford with Hornblotton. Mr. Thring is a contributor of sacred lyrics to Morrell and How's Collections, and to Chope's Hymnal.

AFTERNOON HYMN.

(Contributed.)

THE radiant morn hath died away,

And spent too soon her golden store;
The shadows of departing day

Creep on once more.

Our life is but a fading dawn,

Its glorious noon how quickly past:
Lead us, O Christ, when all is gone,
Safe home at last.

Oh, by Thy soul-inspiring grace,

Uplift our hearts to realms on high; Help us to look to that bright place Beyond the sky,

Where light, and life, and joy, and peace,

In undivided empire reign,
And thronging angels never cease
Their deathless strain,-

Where saints are clothed in spotless white,
And evening shadows never fall,
Where Thou, eternal Light of light,
Art Lord of all.

A HYMN OF PRAISE.

LORD of power, Lord of might,
God and Father of us all,
Lord of day and Lord of night,
Listen to our solemn call;
Listen, whilst to Thee we raise
Songs of prayer and songs of praise.

Light, and love, and life are Thine,
Great Creator of all good;
Fill our souls with light Divine ;
Give us, with our daily food,
Blessings from Thy heavenly store,
Blessings rich for evermore.

Graft within our heart of hearts

Love undying for Thy name;
Bid us, ere the day departs,
Spread afar our Maker's fame.
Young and old together bless;
Clothe our souls with righteousness.

Full of years, and full of peace,

May our life on earth be blest ;
When our trials here shall cease,

And at last we sink to rest,
Fountain of eternal love,
Call us to our home above.

N N

PATRICK HUNTER THOMS.

PATRICK HUNTER THOMS is a native of Dundee. He is editor of Professor Moses Stuart's Letters to Dr. Channing on the Divinity of Christ, to which he has prefixed an introductory essay. Several fugitive pieces, both in prose and verse, have proceeded from his pen.

THE HOUSE OF PRAYER.
(Contributed.)

WHEN Adam dwelt in Eden's bowers,
And view'd creation young and fair,
His footsteps press'd the stainless flowers,
As still he sought the house of prayer.

When Abel drew the firstling's blood,
And drained it on the altar bare,
The spot which drank the crimson flood
Was owned of God a house of prayer.

When Jacob lay at dead of night,
And angels scal'd the mystic stair,
Its top was lost in glory bright,

The base a pillar'd house of prayer.

When Hebrew captives named the name
Of Him who made them aye His care,
They walk'd unscath'd amidst the flame
That glow'd around their house of prayer.

So when the loving Saviour knelt

On Olivet, mid evening air,

And told His God the woes He felt,

That mountain brow His house of prayer,

Or in Gethsemane's dark shade,

When tears of blood His form did wear,

By foes beset, by friends betrayed,

His solace was the house of prayer.