Till suddenly, in accents plain,

He sang of heaven in such sweet strain,
As angel-tongues might tell.

They wept, but his young voice arose
Still stronger, sweeter, to the close
Of his most holy theme;
His spirit seemed to wander free,
Enwrapt in glorious ecstacy,

By some all-heavenly scene.

'Twas finished! and the last words sung-
His little head reclining, hung

Upon his mother's breast;

While she believed him sunk to sleep,
And would not even sigh, nor weep,
Lest she might break his rest.

But his glad soul, on heaven intent,
So gently left its tenement,

She marked not it had fled;

'Twas only by the silent heart,
The lifeless hands, the lips apart,
She knew her child was dead.

Bristol.

H. D. H.

"THE SON OF THE MANSE."

(A Tribute to the Memory of George Archibald Lundie.-See p. 42.)

THY fond affections closely twined

Around thy childhood's home,

Yet was it left by thee behind,

In distant lands to roam;

Thou didst not seek gay scenes of mirth,

Or golden stores of wealth,

But, frail and sorrowing child of earth,

The cheerful glow of health!

Oh! it was sad to mark the shade
Which dimmed thy youthful brow;
For stern disease and sorrow made
Thy gentle spirit bow;

Yet from a Father's hand of love
Were pain and languor given,
That thou, prepared for joys above,
Might'st early pass to heaven.

Bright are the records of thy zeal
On Tutuila's isle!

The weary sufferer thou didst heal,
The mourner's grief beguile;

Whilst the sweet gospel's hallowed sound

Thy lips would oft proclaim,
And tell the listening ones around,
A Saviour's precious name.

Yet fever, weakness, doubt, and fear,
Thy fragile frame opprest;

Oh! if thy days were shortened here,-
The brighter is thy rest!
Immortal health and vigour now
Illume thy sparkling eye,
A radiant crown adorns thy brow,
And hushed is every sigh.

Amidst that pure seraphic throng

Thy "sister" welcomed thee,

And sweetly blends your rapturous song

In grateful melody;

For in the land of fadeless day,

Forgotten are thy fears;

And God's own hand hath wiped away,
For ever, all thy tears!

Brighton.

H. M. W.

THE

YOUTHS' MAGAZINE.

JUNE, 1846.

STARLING

[Elstow House and Church, from the Bridge.]

LSTOW is a retired and picturesque village in Bedfordshire, about two miles from the county town, on the road through Luton and St. Albans to London. But its chief attraction lies in its connexion with the author of the "Pilgrim's Progress," who was born and resided for almost the entire period of his life in this place and its immediate neighbourhood, which have thus become classic ground to all the admirers of his genius and writings.

As this interesting association has been but little recognized by any of his biographers, although it presents

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