JERUSALEM.

JERUSALEM, Jerusalem,

How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!-
Could I have gazed upon the dome
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening bells went down,
Thy parting camels bells.

Could I have stood on Olivet,

Where once the Saviour trod,
And from its height look'd down upon

The city of our God!

For is it not, Almighty God,

The holy city still,

Though there Thy prophets walk no more,—
That crown's Moriah's hill?

Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up

On Zion's sadden'd brow;
Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres
With mimic sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That kill'd them, came and wept.

Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,

The trees o palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep;

The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,

Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.

I would have mused, while night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,

Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,

Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,

Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the scythe of time.
The garden of Gethsemane

Those aged olive trees

Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That bathed once Messiah's brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer
Of Jesus, when in agony,

He sought the Father there.
I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood,
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near Him as they could;
I would have stood, till night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,

And thought upon the Saviour's cross,
And made His woes my own.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;

Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid-

The crescent is thy cross!

It is not mine, nor will it be,

To see the bloody rod

That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, Thou city of our God!

But round thy hill predictions throng
Of all thy murder'd seers,

And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,-

Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,

And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touch'd
Thy feet, gave up their dead :
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,
HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD!

BRIEF MEMOIR OF M. J. A—.

MY DEAR SIR,-I am sure you will rejoice, and I believe many of the readers of the GLEANER will also, that the Great and Good Shepherd still continues to smile upon His own work in our midst, and that, too, among the young. Another of our Sunday scholars has been removed from our rank here to swell the number of the saints above, and though only about ten years of age, thank God, there is abundant testimony to evidence that the little one concerning whom I write was marked by the Lord Jesus as His own, and that He had gathered her into His fold during her sojourn on earth, preparatory to the great change which took her from a world of sorrow to a bright and happy eternal home above. What a day that shall be of which the prophet Malachi writes, “ And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels." And one anticipates the time when there shall indeed be a glorious gathering of those, amongst others, of

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whom our Lord once said, "Of such is the kingdom of God," or, as we were singing on Good Friday last

"And happy amid that bright, joyous throng,
Shail many a little one sing.

How sweetly their voices shall praise Him there
In the blessings His hand has bestowed:
They shall shine there bright,

In their robes of white,

For they all have been washed in His blood.

And crowns they shall wear of the purest gold,
And a wonderful song they shall sing,

And each shall cast down

His glittering crown,

At the feet of the heavenly King."

And I firmly believe that M. J. A—, the subject of the following brief memoir, will be one amid this blessed band. I wonder if some of the readers of the LITTLE GLEANER ever ask themselves individually, "Shall I be there ?" One writes in a hymn somewhere

"Lord in Thy house I read there's room;
And, vent'ring hard, behold I come!
But can there, tell me, can there be
Amongst Thy children room for me?

For sinners, Lord, Thou cam'st to bleed;
And I'm a sinner vile indeed!

Lord, I believe Thy grace is free:

O magnify that grace in me."

M. Jane A- was, although young, for several ars one of the scholars in our Sunday-school. e valued deeply the instruction she received here, and would often say, What a good thing is to have a Sunday-school teacher." Her lessons

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