350 THE HARP OF PITCA1EN. 
5. 
High on presumption's tottering mast, 
Held by a thread in reckless sleep, 
Thou fear'st not, though th' approaching blast 
May whirl thee headlong to the deep. 
Awake, awake, no longer dare 
The vengeance thou affect' st to scorn, 
Lest thy enraged Creator swear, 
" Thou never, never shalt i 
6. 
Canst thou 'midst endless burnings dwell ? 
Or with eternal fire abide ? 
That thou wouldst madly doom to hell 
The soul for which Immanuel died. 
Arise, arise, repent, believe, 
The Spirit's call no longer spurn ; 
Thy Saviour will the welcome give, 
And angels joy at thy return. 
This hymn was composed at the request of 
several of our little community, who wished to 
have one of their own, which they might sing to 
the pathetic air of " Bonny Doon." G. H. N. 
I BELIEVE, I BELIEVE. 
" How are you to-day, Polly? " said I to the 
wife of George Adams, who had long been 
grievously afflicted with a cancer in her breast, 
and was rapidly approaching the grave. 
" I shall soon be at home, sir" she said.^ 
" On whom is your hope placed at this time ?' 
I asked. 
" On the blessed Saviour who died for me, and 
has redeemed meS' 
And then she went on to declare her faith and 
