THIS eminent divine and poet, who combined so beautifully in his character, the single-heartedness and pity of an apostle with the endowments and elegance of an accomplished scholar, was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the 21st of April, 1783. In 1800, he was admitted of Brazen Nose College, Oxford; and previously to receiving a fellowship in All Souls, he went abroad and travelled through Germany, Russia, and the Crimea, when he was little more than seventeen years old. In 1801 he gained the Chancellor's prize for Latin poetry, and two years afterwards the prize in English verse, by his poem of Palestine. This admirable production, unlike the usual prize poems of our Universities, which are first admired and then forgotten in a few weeks, attained a popula rity which still continues unimpaired.

Having been presented to the rectory of Hodnett, in Shropshire, Heber continued for several years to labour faithfully in the discharge of his sacred du ties, and during this interval he published, in 1812, a small volume of Poems and Translations, which was favourably received by the public. Three years afterwards, on being chosen to deliver the Bampton Lectures, he discharged that duty so ably, as to add greatly to the high literary reputation which he had already acquired. He was nominated to the important office of preacher at Lincoln's Inn in 1822; but shortly after, on being elected to the vacant Bishopric of Calcutta, he resolved to devote himself to the Missionary labours which that exalted but perilous station would entail upon him. He accordingly embarked for India in 1823, and on arriving at his distant diocese, he commenced the arduous duties of Episcopal Visitation among the different Presidencies. But the wasting effects of the climate, added to such unintermitting toil, produced their anticipated close, and this truly zealous apostle entered into his rest on the 3d of April, 1826, in the forty-third year of his age. Even the excellence of his poetry, great although it was, was partially sunk in the beauty of his personal character, the devotedness of his clerical labours, and the martyrdom by which they were crowned-so that he was more thought of and beloved as the good bishop, than the accomplished poet and scholar. But wherever the English language is known, his beautiful hymns are cherished, not only for their surpassing poetical merits, but that pure spirit of devotion of which they are the

utterance.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN AND HER SON.

Wake not, O mother, sounds of lamentation!
Weep not, O widow, weep not hopelessly!
Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation,
Strong is the Word of God to succour thee!
Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him,
Hide his pale features with the sable pall:
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him:
Widow'd and childless, she has lost her all!

Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping?
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delay'd?

"Set down the bier-he is not dead, but sleeping:
Young man, arise!"-He spake, and was obey'd!

Change then, O sad one! grief to exultation;
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee;
Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation;
Strong was the Word of God to succour thee!

MISSIONARY HYMN.

From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a balmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from Error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft on Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness,

The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learnt Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story!
And you, ye waters, roll
Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole!
Till o'er our ransom'd nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!

Star of the east, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall!
Angels adore him in slumbers reclining,

Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour, of all!

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,
Odours of Edom, and offerings divine;
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gold would his favour secure; Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Nearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid! Star of the east, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION.

I praised the earth, in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green:
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield:
And earth and ocean seem'd to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day!"

I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky!
And moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered!"

O God! O good beyond compare!
If thus thy meaner works are fair,
If thus thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be
Where thy redeem'd shall dwell with thee!

STANZA S.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning grey,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide;

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on!-then on!-where duty leads,

My course be onward still,

O'er broad Indostan's sultry meads,

O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain,

For sweet the bliss us both awaits,

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,

Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay,

As then shall meet in thee!

FUNERAL HYMN.

Thou art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave!—we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died.

Thou art gone to the grave!-and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;
But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's

song.

Thou art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.

HYMN BEFORE THE SACRAMENT.

Bread of the world, in mercy broken!
Wine of the soul, in mercy shed!
By whom the words of life were spoken,
And in whose death our sins are dead!

Look on the heart by sorrow broken,
Look on the tears by sinners shed,

And be Thy feast to us the token

That by thy grace our souls are fed!