Who the worth of souls can measure? Save—save one! Who can count the priceless treasure? Save—save one! Like the stars shall shine, for ever They who faithfully endeavour Dying sinners to deliver, Save—save one! LIV. NEW YEAR’S HYMN, WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE INDIAN MUTINY, 1857. In the year that hath passed o’er us, Many suffered woe and pain; Time can ne’er the brave restore us, Far in distant India slain. Praying, praising, Saints have joined the martyr-train. But another year is dawning, We are spared its light to see; May each blessing, may each warning, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee— Like Thy martyrs Faithful unto death to be! May Thy Word, salvation bringing, Shine where darkness now appears; Plenteous be the harvest springing, That was sown in blood and tears;— Light from darkness, Joy from sorrow, hope from fears! Blessed hope now set before us, Satan’s slaves shall burst their thrall, All the nations join the chorus To the Lord who died for all;— Ransomed millions At the Saviour’s feet shall fall! POEMS. 1. THE INDIAN MAID. The leading incidents in this poem are historical. The descendants of Pocahontas are still to be found, I believe, in the United States. Through the majestic forest shade The light of morn is faintly shining, Scarce straggling through the twilight made By leafy boughs entwining; As Nature, from the birth of Time, Deep in this lone sequestered wood, Had formed herself a bower sublime, Where she might dwell with solitude, And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear Man’s guilty foot could wander here, Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake The slumbering echoes, rudely break The solemn, deep, unearthly still, Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill A sense of awe—as though he trod A temple consecrate to God! Yet war can penetrate e’en here To blight the beauties of creation, Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear Dark haunts of desolation. The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath, When from the bright pure heaven above, And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe But peace, and joy, and love. And even now, when blushing morn, On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne, Comes in her laughing loveliness The world to brighten and to bless, It were more meet that heaven should shroud Her radiant brow in some dark cloud, And dewy tears of morning flow For scenes of blood on earth below!