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fallacious thought, that parents, deeply impressed themselves with the blessings of the Gospel, would labour diligently to impart them to their children. The zeal with which they discharged the duties of native teachers, favoured this delusion. It was not seen at first that it requires a very different, and, in some respects, a higher order of mind to teach a child, than to preach to an adult. In some instances, before this error was discovered, a whole generation, though born of Christian parents, was almost lost for the time. A threatening broil among this upstart class, neither heathen nor Christian, and therefore worse than either, was the only interruption to the peaceful enjoyment of my visit to Tonga.

The hope is brighter for the rising generation. I could not leave the island without special prayer for those two hundred children whom I saw assembled at Nakualofa, and who, when the school-examination was ended, formed themselves into a procession, and laid each its little gift of a shell, or a fruit, or a flower, at my feet; and then, accompanying me to the boat, threw into it the garlands from their heads as a parting offering of friendship.Colonial Church Chronicle.

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PRAYER never dies -From human tongue
First utter'd when the world was young,
Down through the changeful scenes of earth-
Each plaintive cry of solemn birth,

E'en to sad misery's latest moan

Wrung from the lips of outcast lone

For ever breathes GOD's Throne around

A quickening soul-a living sound!

Prayer never dies!-Man may forget,
By mists of faithless doubt beset,
To wait the merciful reply
Vouchsafed to man's beseeching cry:
But God remembers :-blessings flow,
Meed of the heart's convulsive throe,
An utterance register'd above,

And own'd of Him Whose Name is Love.

Prayer never dies!-Ah! who shall say
How many a plan in this our day,
The glory of GoD's Church to prove,
Or demon thraldom to remove,

For welfare of CHRIST's blessed poor,
Hath sprung (as saith the promise sure,)
In answer to some prayer of old,
Some litany of martyr bold?

Prayer never dies!-Rose faint and dim,
The incense of our votive hymn;

Cold were men's hearts-forgot the creed
For which fore-elders dared to bleed :-

Whence those sweet tones?-(perchance the last,
Ere England's day of grace be past)—
The marvel of that warning plea,
Mirror of Christian ancestry?

Prayer never dies!-The chanted calls
Which ceaseless soar'd from cloister-walls;
The plaint the hermit-spirit swells
Though ruin stains those vocal cells;
Live in the souls, who, wean'd from earth
By consciousness of second birth,
Favour the dust of Zion's stones,

And pine for Salem's long-hush'd tones.

Prayer never dies!-The answer here
Accorded-patient faith to cheer,
Contains a germ of deathless power,
A web to weave from hour to hour,
All time throughout,—all time beyond,—
For, burst the film of mortal bond
In Him Whose Priesthood pleads on high,
Prayer's potent influence cannot die.


The Children's Corner.


(From the German of Krummacher.)

A. PILGRIM once was returning to his home, after having long wandered in distant countries, and his soul was full of sweet hope. For many years he had not seen his

dear parents and brothers and sisters, and therefore he hastened onwards. But even as he reached the mountains, night overtook him, and so dark was it that he could not see the staff in his hand. As he descended into the valley, he lost his way, and as he wandered sorrowfully hither and thither, he sighed, and said, "O! could I only meet one who would guide me to the right path, how thankful should I be to him."

Thus spoke he and stood still waiting for a guide. Whilst the benighted pilgrim stood thus full of doubt and anxiety, behold, far off in the distance appeared a wandering light, and its glimmer shone cheerfully in the surrounding gloom. "Mayst thou be blessed to me, O messenger of peace," joyfully exclaimed the wanderer, "for I perceive I must now be near the dwellings of men. Thy pale glimmer shines as brightly in the darkness of night as the first rays of the sun." He hastened now quickly to the gleam in the distance, desirous of meeting (as he supposed) the bearer of the light, But ah! it was a Will o' the Wisp that arose from the marsh, and hovered over the surrounding lake, and the pilgrim had unknowingly wandered to the edge of a precipice.

Suddenly a voice behind him exclaimed, "Stop, or thou art a child of death." He stood, and looked quickly around him. It was the voice of a fisherman who called to him from his boat.


"Why," said the traveller, "should I not follow the friendly light? I am an erring pilgrim."

"Ah," said the fisherman, "dost thou call the deceitful glimmer that lures so many to destruction a friendly light? Wicked and unearthly spirits raise from gloomy swamps the nightly vapour that imitates the brightness of a friendly light. Look! already the restless offspring of night and darkness vanishes from our view."

Even as he spoke, the deceitful gleam disappeared. The Will o' the Wisp was extinguished, and the weary pilgrim thanked his preserver with heartfelt gratitude. But the fisherman answered, "How should a man see another in error and not guide him to the right path? We must both thank GOD; I, that He permitted me to be the instrument of performing a good action; thou, that

it was so ordained that I should pass just now upon the` lake."

Thereupon, the kind-hearted fisherman left his boat, accompanied for a time the erring pilgrim, and pointed out to him the right way to his father's house. The traveller now hastened onwards with renewed courage, and as the light of his home shone between the distant trees with a clear quiet brightness, he was the more thankful for having been preserved through danger and He knocked and the door opened, and his father and mothers, brothers and sisters, hung upon his neck, and kissed him, weeping for joy.




DEAR little children, listen,
And a story I will tell :
The pretty Robin Redbreast,
I know you love it well;
You scatter crumbs each morning
On the window-sill, I know,
For the little Robin Redbreast,
When the ground is white with


The roughest village urchin,

Who nothing spares besides,
Would not harm the Robin Redbreast,
That in his care confides:
Ah! know ye not the blessing
Upon the Robin shed?
Nor why he weareth on his heart
That hue of brilliant red?
The bitter path of sorrow

Our LORD and Master trod; (For only thus could sinners

Be reconciled with GOD;) Upon His blessed Shoulder

The shameful Cross was borne; And with the thorny diadem

His sacred Brow was torn.
The Angels wept in Heaven

To see that dreadful sight;
The Sun obscured his glory;
The Earth was wrapped in night:
But man, He died to save,

Could mock and jeer that day,
And follow Him with curses
Along the bitter way.

A little bird was hovering
Around the SAVIOUR'S Head;
It lighted on His Forehead,

Where the wounds so cruelly bled:
Then from the blood-stained chaplet
With tiny beak, he drew

One crimson thorn, the utmost
His little strength could do.
He bore aloft the trophy,

In his flight towards the sky;
But it stained his russet feathers,
With a bright and roseate dye:
And from that hour he weareth
(At least, so legends say,)
The crimson plumage on his breast,
In memory of that day.

And he alone, of all the birds

That sing in forest green,
Dare venture to the hearth of man,
Or at his board be seen:
Yes, love him well, dear children,
And let your crumbs of bread
For the Robin every morning
On the window-sill be spread.
And let him teach you, likewise,
To remember, every day,
In sleeping or in waking,
At lessons or at play,
However little it may seem,
In all to do your best:
So shall the FATHER love you,
And His blessing on you rest.




MY DEAR FRIEND, You want some account of my recent trip, and you shall have it, as far as concerns the general interests of the Church. It is so rarely that one can get away from parochial cares and Editorial responsi bilities, that when I can do so, and enjoy the fresh breeze, and pass along on the "iron road," at a pace which would astonish the slow coaches of other days, I feel like a school-boy let home for the vacation, and really revel in the beauties of nature, and watch, with increasing interest, the scenes, ever charming, ever new." There is really a pleasure in having your letters following you at some country post, so that they don't reach you before you have set out for a day's pleasure, and thus you get thorough rest.

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Well, to begin at the beginning. A noble engine conducted me at a glorious speed to Bristol, where I refreshed myself with the Cathedral service. Everything was orderly and decent. The music was like a finelychiselled statue,-very beautiful, but very cold. There was really nothing life-like about it. The choristers sang, because they had to sing. There was nothing wrong in the mechanism, but it was machinery, after all. The more I hear Cathedral services, the more do I regret that those noble strains that thrilled a S. Augustine have no home in these sanctuaries which should be their abiding place. On this occasion, the "Te Deum," &c., were sung to fine Services, by the Rev. Sir F. Ouseley, Bart., and the anthem was one of Croft's. There was a fair attendance; and, if the people's song were used in the people's Church, I have no doubt that many, very many more would attend services in which they could bear a part, and at which they would be something more than delighted listeners.

However, it was refreshment, after all: and it is a satisfaction to travellers to be able thus to join in the worship of GOD.

The incidents of travel are pretty much the same; and

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