Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave, Who noble triumphs win, but wear no glave! Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free, To spread her glorious name from sea to sea! Men, who have pushed their conquests wide and far, And changed to pruning-hooks the shafts of war; Who bear no glittering arms, no banners wave-- Who strike no blow--are stricken but to save! Yet still they conquer! and where they appear, The painted savage breaks his poisoned spear; A bloodless triumph follows in their train-- For those they vanquish feel no victor’s chain! They conquer!--nor like other conquerors boast A prostrate people and a plundered coast-- Nor pant to hear a nation’s deafening peals, With captive warriors at their chariot wheels-- Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane, The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.-- No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring! Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing! Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth! Their trophies--age, and infancy, and youth! ’Tis theirs to free--exalt--and not debase-- The painted brothers of our common race! Nor stripe--nor tribute--nor oppressive sway Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way! Their watchword still--Let war and sorrow cease! Their noblest epithet--The men of peace! _Dr. W. Beattie._ He goes to speak the words of life To souls by error tossed: And bear the gospel’s joyful sound To lands in darkness lost-- To speak his Master’s glorious works, His grace and power proclaim, And teach untutored savages To breathe Messiah’s name. And O, the rich reward that waits A work of grace like this! A life of love, a death of peace, A Heaven of endless bliss! Earth’s proudest, noblest honours, fall Far, far below the prize He gains, who claims this work his own-- His glory never dies! _S. D. Patterson._ O, bless the pious zeal And crown with glad success the labouring sons Of that best charity, whose annual mite Sends forth Thy gospel to the distant isles! So shall the nations, rescued myriads, hear, And own Thy mercy over all Thy works! So, from each corner of the enlightened earth, Incessant peals of universal joy Shall hail Thee, heavenly Father, God of all! _Madan._ Where is your heathen brother?--From his grave Near thy own gates, or ’neath a foreign sky, From the thronged depths of ocean’s mourning wave, His answering blood reproachfully doth cry, Blood of the soul!--Can all earth’s fountains make Thy dark stain disappear?--Stewards of God, awake! _Mrs. Sigourney._ MOMENT--MINUTE.