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THE PENITENT THIEF.

No!' midst the more than mortal throes His spotless soul is doom'd to feel, He yet can sooth another's woes,

And love, and hope, and peace reveal. " This day," the dying Saviour said,

( While from his eyes a glance there fell, Which to the mourner's heart convey'd

More- ah! far more than words could tell)­" This day thy soul from guilt set free, Shall enter Paradise with me!"

O! none but he that inly knows

The value of those gifts of heav'n, Can e'er conceive the bliss that flows

From grace receiv'd, from sin forgiv'n! And none, who has not felt the same Unspeakable release,

Can estimate the happy frame

Of mingled joy and peace,

In which that long and painful day With this poor outcast pass'd away! His breast with holy ardour burns;

To God the pardon'd sinner prays; And ever and anon he turns

Upon his suff'ring Lord to gaze. The shame, the anguish of his lot, His bleeding wounds are all forgot; He loves the cross, that seem'd at morn A woe too heavy to be borne.