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Look! liow lie laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father; while his little form
Flutters, as winged with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless angels well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent.

f)u> Btljf 4
In July of the year —=—, and in the warm July of my
life, my first-born was seat"to me. She came from heaven as a
most precious gift, a true token' of love from a loving Father.
Beautiful—not merely with that beauty each mother sees
in her child, but beautiful even in the eye of the most indiffer
ent stranger; fair as the first rose of summer; full of promise:
out of her earnest eyes seemed to peep a newly created Soul.
As soon as the babe w r as born, I asked that it should be
laid on my bosom. Mothers, what a moment! You, you
alone can know what that hour contains ‘for us—the turning-
point of our existence, the new era, the birthplace of inex
pressible bliss.
My babe and I were entering on an enchanted road.
What was the past, what could the future be to me ? Had I
not my child? What was the wide--world, with its treasures
and its promises, with "its joys and its sorrows, its hopes and
its disappointments, its bitterness, its coldness, its indiffer
ence, and its praises ? Was not my babe in my arms, nestled
in my bosom ? Was I not the mother, the only mother of
my angel-cliild ? To no other God its Creator had intrusted
it; no other had suffered for it; 110 other was giving it daily
From the first I resolved I would endeavor always to
meet the sweet look of the little being with one correspond
ing to it, I must surround that young existence with love.
I must see that 110 other atmosphere comes near it but one of
tenderness and sympathy. Mo cold winds are to blow 011 my

flower. No blasts are to shake it and crash it down. No ;
nothing is to approach it but the .mellow breath of spring and
the vivifying rays of the sun. Watching my babe in its
sleep, I used to spy the instant when it should awake, so as
to meet its look with one of affection.
It was day by day growing in loveliness. Ever smiling
and cooing; never having to cry for any thing it wanted;
with a constitution to all appearance perfect, and with all the
comforts that could make its infant life easy and pleasant, my
Emma v 7 as the delight of her mother. How often have I had
the plump little darling lie long in my arms, telling her many
things she alone ever knew, invoking 011 her precious head
such mercies as our Father alone can give. How I used to
wonder what it was that years would bring her of happiness
or sorrow. What indeed did I not ask, in those solitaiy, but
not lonely hours, of that God, so generous and compassionate,
who had already shown me such unspeakable bounty.
j. a. c.
Hr a jNpnMumr Balup
When first in parent arms, a new-born child,
Weeping thou lay’st while all around thee smiled.
So live, that, sinking in th} r last long sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile when all around thee weep.

FafHw at tin? goar,
I know lie ’s coming by this sign.
The baby ? s almost wild;
See how he laughs and crows and starts;
Heaven bless the merry child.
He ? s father’s self in face and limb,.
And father’s heart is strong in him.
Shout, baby, shout, and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands. MAEY howitt.
gatu> at jjamip
There is beauty all around,
When there’s love at home ;
There is joy in every sound,
When there’s love at home.
Peace and plenty here abide,
Smiling sweet on every side,
Time doth softly, sweetly glide,
When there’s love at home.
In the cottage there is joy,
When there’s love at home ;
Hate and envy ne’er annoy,
When there’s love at home.
Roses blossom ’ncatli our feet,
All the earth’s a garden sweet,
Making life a bliss complete,
When there’s love at home.

Kindly heaven smiles above,
When there ? s love at home;
All the earth is filled with love,
When there ? s love, at home.
Sweeter sings the brooklet by,
Brighter beams the azure sky,
Oh,' there 7 s One who smiles on high,
When there ; s love at home.
Jesus, show thy mercy mine,
Then there ? s love at home;
Sweetly whisper I am thine,
Then there ; s love at home.
Source of love, thy cheering light
Far exceeds the sun so bright—
Can dispel the gloom of night—
Then there 7 s love at home. j. h. m’naughton.
This baby brow, is there aught so fair ?
The breath of heaven is playing there,
In and out of his waves of hair—
Our baby.
Love looks out of bis heaven-lit eyes ;
Now there ; s a frown, or a sweet surprise,
On the drooping lids then soft sleep lies—
Our baby.
■ 2

His rounded arm and liis dimpled knee,
And liis little fat toes—one, two, three,
Four, five ; and two hands, as you see,
Has baby.
He fills a large place in sister’s arms,
Who is hourly filled with soft alarms,
Lest he fall into untoward harms—
Our baby.
Baby begins to lisp, “Dear mamma
When the door opens, he knows his papa,
And chirps like a bird, He-ke, ha-ha—
Our baby.
Sweet birdie is he! Oh, if the cage door
Should open some day to enclose him no more,
Fledged may he be for the heavenly shore—
Our baby.
no pr«t aw?*,
A row of little faces by the bed,
A row of little hands upon the spread,
A row of little roguish eyes all closed,
A row of little naked feet exposed.
A gentle mother leads them in their praise,
Teaching their feet to tread in heavenly ways,
And takes this lull in childhood’s tiny tide
The little errors of the day to chicfe.

No lovelier sight this side of heaven is seen,
And angels hover o’er the group serene:
Instead of odor in a censer swung,
There floats the fragrance of an infant’s tongue.
Then tumbling headlong into waiting beds,
Beneath the sheets they hide their timid heads
Till slumber steals away their idle fears,
And like a peeping bud each face appears.
All dressed like angels in their gowns of white,
They ’re wafted to the skies in dreams of night;
And heaven will sparkle in their eyes at morn,
And stolen graces all their ways adorn. 1
fnur Ijvyts Hhi
Playing on the carpet near me
Is a little cherub girl;
And her presence, much I fear me,
Sets my senses in a whirl;
For a book is open lying,
Full of grave philosophying,
And I own I’m vainly trying
There my thoughts to hold.
But, in. spite of my essaying,
They, will evermore be straying
To that cherub near me. playmg,
Only two, years old.

With her hair so long and flaxen,
And her sunny’ eyes so blue,
And her cheek so plump and waxen,
She is charming to the view.
Then her voice, to all who hear it,
Breathes a sweet, entrancing spirit j
0 to be for ever near it
Is a joy untold—
For J tis ever sweetly telling
To my heart, with rapture swelling,
Of affection inly dwelling—
Only two years old.
With a new delight I ’m hearing
All her sweet attempts at words,
In their melody endearing,
Sweeter far than any bird’s;
And the musical mistaking
Which her baby-lips are making,
In my heart a charm is waking,
Firmer iii its hold
Than the charm, so rich and glowing,
From the Roman’s lip o’erflowing;
Then she gives a look so knowing—
Only two years old !
Now her ripe and honied-kisses ; —
Honied, ripe for me alone—
Thrill'my soul with varied blisses
Childless ones have never known.

When her twining arras are round me.
All domestic joy hath crowned me,
And a fervent spell hath bound me,
Never to grow cold.
0 there 7 s not, this side of Aldenn,
Aught with loveliness so laden
As my little cherub maiden,
Only two years old ! s . c . PERC ival.
gifUi* tliilihyiu
Speak gently to the little child,
So guileless and so free,
Who, with a trustful, loving heart,
Puts confidence in thee.
Speak not the cold and careless thoughts
Which time has taught thee well,
Nor breathe one word whose bitter tone
Distrust might seem to tell.
If 011 his brow there rests a cloud,
However light it be,
Speak loving words, and let him feel
He has a friend in thee.
And do not send him from thy side,
Till on his face shall rest
The joyous look, the sunny smile,
That mark a happy breast.

Oil, teach him this should be his aim:
To cheer the aching heart;
To strive, where thickest darkness reigns,
Some radiance to impart;
To spread a peaceful, quiet calm,
Where dwells the noise of strife;
Thus doing good, and blessing all,
To spend the whole of life.
To love, with pure affection deep,
All creatures, great and small,
And still a stronger love to bear
For Him who made them all.
Remember, ; t is no common task
That thus to thee is given,
To rear a spirit fit to be
The inhabitant of heaven. maria roseau.
pur in |uur.
Be not harsh and unforgiving;
Live in love, ’t is pleasant living.
If an angry man should meet thee,
And assail thee indiscreetly,
Do not needlessly offend him,
Turn not thou again and rend him;
Show him love hath been tliy teacher,
Kindness is a potent preacher:
Gentleness is e’er forgiving—
Live in love, ’t is pleasant living.

Why be angry with each other?
Man was macle to love his brother;
Kindness is a human duty,
Meekness a celestial beauty.
Words of kindness, spoke in season,
Have a weight’ with men of reason;
Don’t be others'' follies blaming,
And their little vices naming;
Charity ; s a cure for railing,
Suffers much, is all-prevailing;
Courage, then, and be forgiving;
Live in love, ; t is pleasant living.
Let thy loving be a passion,
Not a complimental fashion;
Live in wisdom, ever proving
True philosophy is loving.
Hast thou known that bitter feeling,
Gendered by our hate’s concealing?
Better love, though e’er so blindly,
E’en thy foes will call it kindly.
Words are wind: 0 let them never
Friendship’s golden love-cord sever;
Nor be angry though another
Scorn to call thee friend or brother;
“ Brother,” say, “ let’s be forgiving ;
Live in love, ’tis pleasant living.”

Tin? |tttty
A dreary place would be this earth,
Were there 110 little people in it;
The song of life would lose its mirth,
Were there 110 children to begin it.
No little forms like buds to grow,
And make the admiring heart surrender;
No little hands on breast and brow,
To keep the thrilling love-cords tender.

No babe within our arms to leap,
No little feet toward slumber tending;
No little knee in prayer to bend,
Our lips to theirs the sweet words lending.
What would the ladies do for work
Were there no pants or jackets tearing,
No tiny dresses to embroider,
No cradle for their watchful caring ;
No rosy boys at wintry morn,
With satchel to the school-house hasting;
No merry shouts as home they rush;
No precious morsel for their tasting ?
Tall, grave, grown people at the door; ■
Tall, grave, grown people at the table;
The men on business all intent,
The dames lugubrious as they ’re able.
The sterner souls would get more stern,
Unfeeling natures more inhuman;
Man would to stoic coldness turn,
And woman would be less than woman.
Life’s song indeed would lose its charm
Were there no babies to begin it ;
A doleful place this world would be
Were there no little people in it.

''The %Mc
Of mother I cannot think of any thing to say. She is
just “the mother” — our own clear, patient, loving “little
mother”—unlike every one. else in the world; and yet it
seems as if there was nothing to say about her by which one
could make any one else understand what she is. She is the
“ precious little mother,” and .the best woman in the world,
and that is all. I could describe her better by saying what
she is not. She never says a harsh word, to any one, nor of
any one. She is never impatient with..father, .like our grand
mother; she is .never impatient with the children, like me.
She never complains or scolds. She is never idle. She
never looks severe and cross at us. .She always teaches us
to choose the lowest places, and the eldest to give up to the
little ones. If she lias a high place'-in’heaven, she will
always be stooping down to- help some one else up, or making
room for others. schonberg-cotta family.
A mother’s love—how sweet the name!
What is a mother’s love ?
A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above
To bless a heart of earthty mould ;
The warmest love that can grow cold—
This is a mother’s love.

To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it.lies.forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,'
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone—
This is a mother’s love/
Its weakness in her arms to bear,
Cherish it on her breast,
Feed it from love’s own fountain there,
And ltill it there to rest;
Then while it slumbers watch its breath,
As.if to guard from instant death—
This is. a. mother’ .
To mark.its growth from day to day/
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks—
This is. a mother’s love .
And can a mother’s love grow cold?
Can she forget.her boy ?- :
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep Tor grief, for ;joy ? .
A mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild—
Is this a mother’s love ?

Ten thousand voices answer, “No!’ 7
Yon clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o’erflow.
Yet ah, remember this,
The infant, reared alone for earth,
May live, may die—to curse his birth.
Is this a mother’s love ?
A parent’s heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well
Her hand may lead with gentlest care
Down the smooth road to hell;
Nourish its frame, destroy its mind :
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
E’en with a mother’s love.
Blest Timothy, whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And_ poured upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word;
This was her lesson to her son—
Time is eternity begun.
Behold that mother’s love.
Blest Eunice, who in wisdom’s path
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath
And know, the fear of G-od:
Ah, youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin etefnity in time,
Taught by that mother’s love.

HOME scenes:
That mother’s love, how sweet the name!
What was that mother’ ?
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame
That kindles, from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart .can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold—
This was that mother’s love.
% 1 »<m
But happy they, the happiest of their kind,
Whom gentler stars unite, and. in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.
’T is not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;
Where friendship full exerts her softest power,
Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire
Ineffable, and sympathy of soulj
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will
With boundless confidence: for naught but love
Can answer love, and render bliss secure.
Let him, ungenerous, w T ho, alone intent
To bless himself, from sordid parents buj^s
The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
Well merited, consume his nights and days;

Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love
Is wild desire,.fierce as the suns they feel,
Let eastern tyrants from the light of heaven
Seclude their b.osom-slaves,: meanly possessed
Of a mere lifeless, violated form :
While those whom love cements in holy faith,
And equal transport, free as.nature live,
Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense-all,
Who in each other clasp whatever fair
High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;
Something than beauty dearer, should they look
Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face ;
Truth, goodness,: honor, harmony, and love, ■' r -
The richest bounty of Indulgent heaven!
Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, ; ’
And mingles both their graces. ; By degrees
The human blossom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,
The father’s lustre and the mother’s bloom. .
Then infant reason grows apace,, and calls
For the kind hand of an assiduous care.
Delightful task,; to rear the tender thought,
To teach the.young to shoot, ...
To pour the fresh instruction o’er the mind,
To breathe th’ enlivening spirit, • and to fix
The generous.purpose in the glowing breast.
Oh, speak the joy! ye whom the sudden tear
Surprises often, while you look around,

And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss.
All various nature pressing on the heart:
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labor, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving heaven.
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;
And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus,
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ;
When, after the long vernal day of life,
Enamored more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together, down they sink in social sleep
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thro' the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again—
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call;
Oh give me that peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

Where burns the loved hearth brightest.
Cheering the social breast?
Where beats the fond heart lightest,
Its humble hopes possessed ?
Where is the smile .of sadness,
Of meek-eyed patience born,
Worth more than those of gladness
Which mirth’s bright cheek adorn ?
Pleasure is marked by fleetness
To those who ever roam,
While grief itself has sweetness
At home, dear home.
There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy’s visits, when most brief:
These eyes in all their splendor
Are vocal to the heart,
And glances, gay and tender,
Fresh eloquence impart.
Then dost thou sigh for pleasure?
Oh do not wildly roam ;
But seek that hidden treasure
At home, dear home.

Wouldst thou that she should arm thee
Against the hour of woe?
Think not she dwelleth only
In temples made for prayer;
For home itself is lonely
Unless her smiles be there.
The devotee may falter,
The bigot blindly roam,
If worshipless her altar
At home, dear home.
Love over it presideth
With meek and watchful awe;
Its daily service guideth,
And shows its perfect law.
If there thy faith shall fail thee,
If there no shrine be found,
What can thy prayers avail thee,
With kneeling crowds around ?
G-o, leave thy gift unoffered
Beneath Beligion’s dome-;
And be her first-fruits proffered
At home, dear home. b, baeton.
garnbrg Ipnu
The morning bright
. With rosy light
Has waked me from my sleep;

Father, I own .
Thy love alone
Thy little one cloth keep.
All through the clay,
I humbly pray,
Be thou my guard and guide;
My sins forgive,
And let me live,
Blest Jesus, near thy side.
0 make thy rest
Within my breast,
Great Spirit of all grace ;
Make me like thee,
Then I shall be
Prepared to see thy face.
When the evening shadows gather
Rounchabout our quiet hearth,
Comes our eldest born unto us
Bending humbly to the earth,
And with hands enclasped tightly,
And with meek eyes raised above,
This the prayer he offers nightly
To the Source of light and love:

“Bless m} r parents, Oil my Father!
Bless my little sister clear!
While I gently take my slumber,
Be thy guardian angels near.
Shonlcl no morning’s dawn e’er greet me,
Beaming brightly from the skies,
Thine the eye of love to meet me
In the paths of Paradise!”
Our little babe, our bright-eyed one,
Our youngest, darling joy,
We teach at evening hour to kneel
Beside our little boy;
And though she cannot lisp a word,
Nor breathe a simple prayer,
We know her Maker blesseth her
The while she kneeleth there.
flu* Ecntidtjij ItUfage,
Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer’s lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please:
How often have I loitered o’er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm—

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree:
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made.
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man.
For him light labor spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to la t y me down :
To husband out life's taper at the close,

And keep the-frame from wasting,, by repose ;
I still had hopes, for pride.attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw.
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ;
And, as a hare, whom hounds and.horns, pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below:
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Hear yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher’s modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
"Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar, was his, guest,
Whose beard descending swept his .aged- breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed;
The broken'soldier,”-kindly.bade to'stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And-quite-forgot their vices in their-woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e’en his failings leaned to virtue’s side ;
But in his duty prompt, at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all:
And, as a bird each fond endearment.tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran:
E’en children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile ;
His ready smile a parent’s warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds arc spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. goldsmit
1’nualr I’raima
Go when the morning shineth,
Go when the moon is bright,
Go when the eve declineth.
Go in the hush of night;

Go with pure mind and feeling—
Send earthly thoughts away—
And in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.
Remember all who love thee,
. • All who are loved by thee;
Pray too for those who hate thee,
If any such there be;
Then for thyself and neighbor
A blessing humbly claim,
And link with each petition
Thy great Redeemers name.
Or if ’tis e’er denied thee
In solitude to pray,
Should holy thoughts come o’er thee
When friends are round thy way,
E’en then the silent breathing
Thy spirit lifts above,
Will reach his throne of glory,
Where dwells eternal love.
Oh, not a joy or blessing
With this can we compare,
The grace our Father gives us
To pour our souls in prayer;
Whene’er thou art in sadness,
Before his footstool fall;
Remember too, in gladness,
His love who gave thee all.

Jlij Fatlm; BIpssp^
My father raised his trembling hand,
And laid it on my head;
“G-od bless thee, 0 my son, my son!”
Most tenderly lie said.
He died, and left no gems or gold:
But still I was his heir;
For that rich blessing which he gave
Became a fortune rare.
Still, in my weary hours of toil
To earn my daily bread,
It gladdens me in thought to feel
His hand upon my head.
Though infant tongues to me have said,
‘•'Dear father,” oft since then,
Yet when I bring that scene to mind,
I hn but a child again.

“ And that from a child thou hast known the holy Scrip
tures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through
faith which is in Christ Jesus.”
gtj gatUrCs BiWip
This book is all that’s left me now;
Tears will unbidden start;
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past
Here was our family tree;
My mother’s hand this Bible clasped;
She, dying, gave it me.
Ah, well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,
And speak of what these pages said
In tones my heart would thrill;
Though they are with the silent dead,.
Here are they living still.
My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear ;
How -calm was my poor mother’s look
Who loved GbxTs word to hear.
Her angel face—I see it yet;
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home.
Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I’ve tried ;
When all were false, I found thee true
My counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die. G . v. morris.

Tli(| jgatkifs Jtyagm*
The father of S P—— cliecl when he was quite young,
leaving him, an only son, with his widowed mother, who had
the sole responsibility of training him up in the way of wis
dom and virtue. It is due to'say that S- , at home and
abroad, respected his motherland was ever ready to gratify
her wishes, though, like most young men charmed by the
glowing fascinations of youthful pleasure, he sometimes thought
his mother imposed on him restraints not easy to be borne.
At an early period in life, S planned his future course,
choosing as his favorite calling the profession of the law; and
having completed his preparatory studies, he resolved that he
would in his profession make his mark in the world, not con
sidering how easy it is for God to frustrate all human plans,
and lead us in a way that we knew not and in a path that
we sought not after.
Early one evening, S- said to his mother, “Mother, I
expect to be absent this evening until perhaps a late hour.
You will not therefore sit up or wait for my return, or give
yourself any unnecessary anxiety as to where I am.”
These guarded words excited the mother's solicitude, and
led her to inquire, “S , my son, where do you intend to
spend the evening, to keep you out so late? I am, you know,
alone in the house.”
“My engagement,” he replied, “is of an innocent charac
ter ; but if I tell you where I am going, you will, I fear, object
to my wishes. I hope you will not press me to give you a
direct answer, further than to say that I expect to spend the

time in good company and in innocent amusement, and to
return home quietly and without disturbing your rest.”
This reply only increased her anxiety to know something
further of the character of his evening’s engagement.
As he could no longer, with becoming respect for his
mother, withhold the answer she desired, he replied, “I have
made an engagement, with other young friends, to attend a
ball this evening; and notwithstanding your strong prejudice
against that kind of amusement, I really hope, mother, in this
case you will not object to my wishes. I shall aim to keep
within the bounds of becoming respect for myself and others,
and you well know it would greatly mar my anticipated pleas
ure to feel that you were opposed to my tfeing gratified.”
This appeal to his kind mother called forth an answer
worthy to be imitated by all mothers who love and pray for
the salvation of their children: “My son, your father, you
know, was called away by death when you were but a child,
leaving you, our only son, to be trained up by your mother in
the right way, and to care for her in the decline of life. You
have nearly ripened into manhood, and how natural it is that
I should lean on you as my best and only earthly support.
Ah, my son, long, long have I prayed that you might become
a Christian, and thus be happy yourself and a blessing and
comfort to me as my sun goes down and my spirit passes to
its final home; but I fear that I must lie down and die with
out receiving an answer to my many prayers for you. If so,
I must leave you in the hands of God. As to your engagement
for this evening, I have only to say that you well know my
wishes, and you are old enough to judge correctly as to what

is right or wrong in the sight of God, who will bring you and
me into judgment; and. now as you go to meet your engage
ment, remember, my child, when amid that gay circle and in
the merry dance/that your mother is at home praying for her
only son, that he may be turned from these fleeting vanities of
time, to seek those things that are eternal in heaven.”
"Notwithstanding the tenderness of this last appeal, S
could-not consent to’deny-himself-the convivial pleasures of
the evening. But as he left the parental roof, he felt an inde
scribable sadness creeping over his youthful dreams of pleas
ure, indicating that all was not right in the sight of God. . His
conscience, not yet seared as with.a hot iron, kept saying,
“Your mother is at home praying” As he entered
the place of amusement, he rallied his youthful manhood to
meet his companions with cheerfulness, but every countenance
in the gay circle seemed to say to him, “ S- , your mother
is at home praying for you.” Even the music of the dance
seemed to echo, “Your mother is at home praying for yon.”
“I imagined,” said he, “even when mingling in the dance,
that I could see the venerable form of my mother at home
and alone, bowed before God in her closet, and that I could
almost hear her prayer, 'Lord, save my only son from going
down to'ruin.’”
Overwhelmed with these feelings, he suddenly took leave
of his companions and hastened to his home. As he drew
near the house, it occurred to him that it being late in the
evening, he would enter quietly, so as not to disturb his
mother if retired to rest. When he was about entering, he
heard her well-known voice. He placed his ear to the key-

hole to catch the words that fell from her lips, and such were
her tender pleadings before God for herself as a lonely widow,
and for the salvation of her dear son, that he, with his son!
already stirred to its very depths, could hold out no longer.
Almost instinctively he opened the door, rushed in, and threw
his arms around his mother, exclaiming, “Dear mother, v I am
yet out of hell. Pray, on for my poor soul. I am sinking in
despair. Can God save one so vile as I have been? Oh
that I knew where I could find mercy and rest for my guilty
soul! Lord, save, or I perish.”
The timely counsel of that praying mother was, “Take
refuge in Christ, my son, as your only safety from the gath
ering storm of God’s wrath that will surely overtake the un
It was not long ere that son was led by faith to lay hold
on Christ, and in him to rejoice in hope of eternal life among
the saved in glory. Nor is this all: it soon became apparent
to him and to others, that the Lord had called him to preach
that same Jesus to others as able and willing to save to the
uttermost. In the great harvest-field of Zion he lived and
labored long and faithfully, gathering into the fold of Christ a
rich harvest of souls. While on the watch-tower of Zion, he
fell with his armor on, shouting, “Victory,” as he mounted
his chariot and went up.

“ Search the Scriptures: for in them ye. think ye have eter
nal life; and they are they which testify of me.’ 7
flu? flmlrs £<ub
Within this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries.
Oh, happiest they of human race
To whom our God has given grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch and force the way.
But better had they ne’er been born
That read to doubt or read to scorn.

at |aa^.
Be kind to thy father; for when thou wert young,
- •. Who loved thee so fondly as he?
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue,
And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to that father; for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with grey,
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold—
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother; for lo, on her brow
May traces of sorrow be seen;
Oh, well may’st thou cherish and comfort her now,
For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother; for thee will she pray,
As long as G-od giveth her breath;
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way,
E’en to the dark valley of death.
Be kind to thy brother; his heart will have dearth
If the smile of thy joy be withdrawn;
The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth
If the dew of affection be gone.
Be kind to thy brother; wherever you are,
The love of a brother shall be
An ornament purer and richer by far
Than pearls from the depth of the sea.

Be kind to thy sister j not many may know
The depth of true, sisterly , love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below
The surface that sparkles above.
Her kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours,
And blessings thy pathway to crown,
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers
More precious than wealth or renown.
JJwft wr gljyy, jjaflwpp
Backward, turn backward, 0 time, in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the far-distant shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silvery threads from my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep:
Bock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward,-flow backward, 0 tide of the years !
I am so weary of toils and of tears—
Toil without recompense, tears all. in vain—
Take them, and give me my childhood again.
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap:
B.ock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, 0 mother, my heart calls for you.
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed, and faded, our faces between ;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for your presence again;
Come from the silence so long and so deep:
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Over my heart in days that are flown,
No love like motker-love ever has shone;
No other fondness abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours.
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the suffering soul and-the world-weary brain;
Slumber’s soft dews o’er my heavy lids creep:
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it fall over my forehead to-night,
Shading my eyes from the moon’s pallid light,
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Happily throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep:
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song;

Sing then, and unto my soul it shall seem
The years since my boyhood have been but a dream.
Clasp yourdost son in a loving embrace,
Your love-lighted lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to part or to weep:
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Etfurpgip m Ids gaffaifs Lttdpub
0 that those lips had language ! Life has passed
"With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Yoice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes—
Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim
To quench it—here, shines 011 me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
0 welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bid’st me honor, with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. ■
1 will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own.
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother, when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers, Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ? It was. Where thou-art gone
Adieus and farewells .are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou w T ast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile;)
Could those few pleasant days-again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
I would not trust 1113" heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no; what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots info port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore
“ Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,”
And thy loved consort 011 the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. .
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed—
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped,-seams op’ning wide, and compass lost,
Aid day by day some current’s thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet Oh the thought that thou art safe, and he !
That thought:is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast, is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise—
The son of parents passed into the skies.

Tln[ ghfc Iftihb
Sleep breathes at last from oat thee,
My little, patient boy ;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day’s annoy.

I sit me clown, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with snclclen shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears—
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories of years.
Sorrows I ’ve had, severe ones
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness—
The tears are in their bed.
Ah! first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope w r ere new!
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too !
My light where’er I go,
l\ly bird when prison-bound—
My hand-in-hand companion—110,
M3’ prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, “ He .lias, departed”—
“His voice”—-“his face”—“is gone,”
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah! I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.
Yes, still he ’s fixed and sleeping!
This silence too the while—
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile;
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one’s ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,
Who say, “ We’ve finished here.” LEIGH HUNT.
Saviour that, of woman born,
Mother-sorrow didst not scOrn,
Thou with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly love,
Hear and aid !
Low he lies, my precious child,
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and plajr,
And its bright thoughts far away;
Saviour, aid!

Pain sits heavy on his brow,
E’en though slumber seal it now;
Round his lip is quivering strife,
In his hand unquiet life;
Aid, 0 aid!
Saviour, loose the burning chain
From his fevered heart and brain;
Give, 0 give his young soul back
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid.
Thou that saidst, “Awake, arise!”
E’en when death had quenched the eyes,
In this hour of grief’s deep sighing,
When o’erwearied hope is dying,
Hear and aid!
Yet, Oh make him thine, all thine,
Saviour, whether death’s or mine!
Yet, Oh pour on human love
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid ! *
There is no'flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there.
There is no' fireside, howsoe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair.

The earth is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead ;
The heart of Rachel for her- children crying
Will not be comforted.
Let us be patient. These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise;
Bat oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors,
Amid these earthly damps; .
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.
There is 110 death. What seems so is transition:
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian
Whose portal we call death.
She is not dead—the child of our affection—
But gone into that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives ;
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child ;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion,
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean
That will not be at rest,
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay:
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way. lonofi-i.low.

fhtr MawOa^gejmrhA
/ Our beloved have departed,
U ? While we tarry broken-hearted
\ In the dreary, empty house;
I They have ended life’s brief story,
/ They have reached the home of glory
\ Over death victorious ! _____
t Hush that sobbing, weep more lightly,
On we travel, daily, nightly,
To the rest that they have found;
Are we not upon the river,
Sailing fast, to meet for ever,
On more holy, happy ground ?
On we haste, to home invited,
There with friends to be united
In a surer bond than here;
Meeting soon, and met for ever!
G-lorious hope, forsake us never,
For thy glimmering light is dear.
Ah, the way is shining clearer,
As we journey ever nearer
To the everlasting home.
Comrades who await our landing,
Friends who round the throne are standing,
We salute you, and we come.
From the German of Lange.

f Ju{ Jfyiiw? gfapfarib
After our child’s untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round with us. to weep
The little spirit’s swift remove,
This story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.
They, in the valley’s sheltering care
Soon crop their meadow’s tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb
To airy shelves of pasture green
That hang along the mountain side,
Where grass and flowers together lean,
And down through mists the sunbeams glide.
But naught can lure the timid thing
The steep and rugged path to try;
Though sweet the shepherd call and sing,
And seared below the pastures lie—
Till in his arms their lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,
When, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o’er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair,
More dewy soft than lowland mead,
The shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed.
This parable, by nature breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind free,
O’er frozen brooks that float unsheathed
From icy thraldom to the sea.
A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,
Holding our little lamb asleep;
And like the burden of the sea
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, “Arise, and follow me.”
They sin that tell us love can die.
With life all other'passions fly—
All others are but vanity;
Earthly they are and, of the earth,
They perish where'they had their birth.
But love is indestructible;
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
But hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It sowetli here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of love is there.
• Oh, when a mother meets 011 high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then for pains and fears,
The weary day, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her fears,
A11 over-payment of delight! southev.
Tlu» gMkrP’s fast faagwp
I11 the year 1792, I was called to the pastoral charge of a
congregation of new settlers who had removed from the vicin
ity of Boston, and located themselves at P , 011 the Gfrcen
Mountains, in the same state. Some of them had sat under
preaching far from evangelical, but their common hardships
constituted a bond of union; and as soon as they had made an
opening in the forest, and provided a shelter for their families,
they united without a dissenting voice to secure the public
ordinances of the gospel. It was an interesting scene when
they assembled, at the earliest dawn of day, to raise the heavy
timbers for a house of worship. I believe that every male
inhabitant of the district was present, and the stillness of night
yet reigned when I was called to lead them in invoking the

No people were ever apparently more harmonious; yet I
soon discovered in a number of individuals a decided hostility
to the humbling doctrines of the gospel. Among these was
George Vesting, who, at the time of my settlement, was thir
ty-eight years of age. He had been early left an orphan; at
eight was placed as an apprentice in an irreligious family;
was married at twenty-two; and then sat for thirteen years
under preaching which-inculcated a good moral life as the
ground of acceptance with God.
He was eminently a sell-made man. His mind was vig
orous and independent; his thoughts original, and often ex
pressed with surprising terseness and force. His mind was
metal in the ore. For fifteen years he was one of the most
attentive hearers I addressed; but it was only to parry every
argument and reject every truth that conflicted with his sj's-
tem of salvation.
The Holy Spirit converted many around him, and among
them the wife of his bosom; but the only visible effect on him
was to render him more decided in defending his own opin
ions. She has told me, that on returning from public worship,
she always dreaded to take a seat with him on the horse,
which was their only conveyance, as he failed not to go home
quarrelling with the truths he had heard; and what was
worse, to vent his bitterness against them in the presence of
his' family of six sons and five daughters, all of whom were
far from God. If his wife uttered a word in their defence,
his-authoritative tone would silence her, and thus secure the
He indulged himself in like manner in the circle at the

public-house, whither he loved to repair from the labors of
his farm, to exchange horses, and mingle his social feelings as
the glass passed briskly, and where his loud voice, his ready
wit, and his bitter thrusts at vital religion, gave him a sad
The town is intersected by a small river, with long aiid
steep acclivities on either side, spreading out as they recede
into beautiful table-lands gradually ascending, bringing a
large part of the farms and dwellings of the inhabitants in
full view of each other, and presenting, in distant prospect,
the spires of a number of neighboring churches. Yining’s
residence was on the opposite side of the gulf, about two miles
from my own, and as some of my shade-trees excluded the
public-house from his view, he rudely but honestly requested
their removal. That public-house was his paradise, where the
native brilliancy of his mind sparkled and was admired.
Often, as I sat in my study on Saturday evening, endeavor
ing to prepare my mind and heart for the Lord’s day, have I
heard the rude trampling of horses passing rapidly by as the
group dispersed, and recognized Yining’s voice drowning that
of his companions, and perhaps convulsing them with laughter.
Yet 011 the following morning he would be early at the
house of God, and always listen with attention. Mot unfre-
quently he would call on me, perhaps abruptly commencing
his interview by saying, “Well, Mr. H— : —, I like you as a
man, but I don’t like your preaching. I don’t believe the
heart is depraved, as you represent it; I suppose you think
what you preach is true, but I don’t.”
Tie would then sit down and debate the point, often with

much shrewdness, till, feeling that enough had been said, and
seeming to have an instinctive apprehension of the value of a
minister’s time, he would rise, seize his hat, kindly bid me
farewell, and in an instant would be gone.
In one of these visits, when his mind had become intent
on the arguments for and against the doctrines of the cross, he
broke out in a loud, half-ironical tone, with a shrewd glance
of the eye, as if he were condescending to our religious weak
ness, and with astonishing recklessness of feeling, “ Well, per
haps I shall come over yet. They say—I know nothing about
it—but they say my mother died when I was two weeks old,
“Mr. Yining may yet be brought in,” said my now de
parted wife when he was gone, with a breaking heart, and
hoping against hope: “God is a prayer-hearing God, and that
mother’s last prayer may yet be answered.”
He' had now been hardening in sin more than fifty years.
His oldest son had left the paternal roof, and apparently in
heriting all his father’s faults, with little of his stability of
character, changed from one object to another, till he located
himself in D , Vermont, on the borders of Canada, and
engaged in the traffic of lumber. With the ministrations of
the sanctuary he had taken leave of the Bible; the Sabbath
he profaned by business or amusement; and he loved the
exhilaration of the festive bowl.
But a prayer-hearing God had his purposes of mercy, and
was not straitened in his means of fulfilling them. Through
the example and influence of a pious lady, an impression was

made on liis mind that religion is a reality, and that lie must
be “lorn again" or perish. He struggled to conceal his
alarm; obtained some fragments of a Bible, studied them in
secret, and soon saw clearly that he was ruined by sin, that
there was no hope but in Christ, and was brought humbly to
accept of his mercy. His thoughts quickly reverted to his
obdurate father and his almost disconsolate mother; and with
out delay he wrote them all the feelings of his heart.
The father soon called on me, saying, with his character
istic frankness, and with unusual apparent seriousness, “Mr.
H , we have received a most surprising letter from my
son F . He is up there in the wilderness, with no means
of grace, and thinks he is converted; and it is unaccountable
to me that, ignorant as lie was about religion, he tells the
same story that you do. I confess it looks some like being
taught by ‘one and the same Spirit.’ ”
It was not long before this son visited his parents. His
heart was full, and he related to the listening family what he
had experienced, ascribing it all to the sovereign mercy of
God, who had opened his blind eyes, showed him his sin and
danger, and led him to the Saviour.
As he unfolded God’s dealings with him, a conflict words
cannot describe agitated his mother’s heart. To hear such
language from his lips was indeed “life from the dead;” but
at every new 7 disclosure she trembled lest her husband should
break out in wrath against the hated truths he uttered, de
nouncing the whole as fanaticism, and vindicate with increased
obstinacy his cherished errors. The depravity of the human
heart, the sovereignty of the divine purposes, dependence on

the Holy Spirit, and salvation solely through the efficacy of
atoning blood, were doctrines with which he had been at war
ever since he came to years of discretion. But he heard in
silence the whole narration of his son, and then only added,
with much seriousness, “I do not hnoiu but these things are so”
He was-soon again at my house, related all his son had
said, and with a solemnity and tenderness I had never ob
served before, added, “If these things are so, all my hopes are
without foundation”
A. few evenings afterwards he accompanied his wife to the
residence of one of his daughters who had recently married,
but the great subject of salvation so pressed upon his heart,
that he could not be induced to take a mouthful of the plain
refreshment provided. “Mr. Mining,” said the wife of his
pastor to him on this occasion, “how greatly should we re
joice to have you submit to Christ. Not only would your
own soul be saved, but you might then be a blessing to your
family and the church of Hod. If you live and die as you
are, you will be no substantial benefit to either, but must
spend an eternity-in misery.”
Those words, he afterwards said, sunk into his heart.
That night he scarcely closed his eyes. His long-cherished
views of the method of salvation appeared baseless as a dream.
He saw he must have light from the Bible and aid from the
Holy Spirit, or perish. He was dumb in his opposition to
the doctrines of the cross, and felt that he needed unmerited
mercy. He came to me again and again. “ I now see,” said :
he, “ what neither you nor all other ministers could have con
vinced me of, that I am totally depraved.” ,

He saw that God would be just in his condemnation, but
his heart rose against that justice. All his former refuges
failed. He felt that he was sinking, and needed some deliv
erer ; yet all we could do was unavailing to bring him to ac
cept of Christ. At every religious meeting he would be pres
ent, borne down with the weight of his sins. He had cher
ished them for half a century, and cherished his unbelief. He
wondered that the patience of God had not long since been
exhausted, and saw not but he must lie down in eternal sor
row. In the interval of public worship, he was one of many
who came to my house to spend the hour in religious conver
sation and prayer. “ How are you to-day, Mr. Mining ?” said
one very tenderly. “He hath hedged me about, that I can
not get out; he hath made my chain heavy,” was his only
reply,'and in tones that indicated the crushing weight of a
burden which God only could remove.
Another Sabbath arrived before he would yield the con
test with his Maker. A discourse that day on the judgment,
he said, “was the first sermon I ever heard; I saw myself at
the bar of God, with my sins all before me. A lie that I told
when a child, and which I had not thought of for thirty years,
came as fresh to my memory as if it had been yesterday. My
whole life-appeared filled up with sin against a holy God. I
saw there was nothing in me but sin—that God’s law con
demned me to the lowest hell, and that it was just. God then
appeared to be as glorious in his justice as in his mercy.
“At evening,” he continued, “as I approached the pray
er-meeting, I heard them singing, from the 119th Psalm,

‘ M y soul lies cleaving to the dust—■
Lord, give me life divine. ’
The feelings of my heart, as those precious words fell on my
ear, I can never describe; they reached my inmost soul. Never
did I hear music so melodious, like one of the songs of heaven.
I saw that I was vile, but that in Christ there was an ocean of
love and mercy. I saw he justly claimed all my heart, and I
wished to give him all. I wanted an eternity and angelic
powers to praise him. I wondered that there could be a rebel
on earth unmoved by his love and his glorious perfections, and
longed that he should be honored and praised by every child
of AdamT
The whole subsequent life of Mr. Vining showed that the
change was real. He publicly professed Christ by uniting
with the church, and became not only an attentive, but a
spiritual worshipper. The idle group at the public-house was
deserted, and his delight was in the company of the devout.
He loved prayer, and for many years was the principal sup
porter of regular weekly prayer-meetings in his neighborhood.
He was a fearless and decided Christian. Much of the native
roughness of his character remained, but a life of consistent
piety gave unquestionable evidence that he had “been born

Watch, jljathcr, HI at ch.
Mother, watch the little feet
Climbing o’er the garden wall,
Bounding through the busy street,
Ranging cellar, shed, and hall.
Never count the moments lost,
Never mind the time ’twill cost:

Little feet will go astray,
Gruicle them, mother, while you may.
Mother, watch the little hand
Picking berries by the way,
Making houses in the sand,
Tossing up the fragrant hay..
Never dare the question ask,
“Why to me this weary task?”
These same little hands may prove
Messengers of light and love.
Mother, watch the little tongue
Prattling, eloquent and wild,
What is said, and what is sung
By thy happy, joyous child.
Catch the word while yet unspoken,
Stop the vow before J t is broken:
This same tongue may yet proclaim
Blessings in a Saviour’s name.
Mother, watch the little heart
Beating soft and warm for you;
Wholesome lessons now impart;
Keep, 0 keep that young heart tru
Extricating every weed, .
Sowing good and precious seed;
Harvest rich you then may see,
Ripening for eternity.

Tfu> gag gtttm
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother
To-morrow ’11 be the happiest time of all the blithe New Year:
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest
For I ; m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I ’m to be Queen o :
the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you ’11 be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen:
For the shepherd lads on every side will come from far away,
And 1’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’
the May.
All the valley, mother, will be .fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale will merrily glance and
For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o‘
the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me earN, mother
To-morrow ’11 be the happiest time of all the blithe New Year :
To-morrow ’11 be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,
For L’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o'
the May.

If you ’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year;
It is the last New Year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low in the mould, and think no more o’
To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of
And the New Year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The May upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day!
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen o’
the May;
And we -danced about the May-pole, and in the hazle copse,
Till Charles’s-wain came out above the tall white chimney-
There’s not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane;
I only wish to live until the snowdrops come again;
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high;
I long to see a flower so, before the day I die.
You ’11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,.
And you ’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid;
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

If I can I ’11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you ’11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often and often with you, when you think 1 7 m far away.
G-ood-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins to dawn;
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year,
So, if you ’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
I thought to pass away before: and yet alive I am,
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb;
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!
To die before the snow-drop came! and now the violet’s here!
Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise ;
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun;
And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can’t be long before I find release;
And that good man the clergyman has told me words of peace.
Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blessed him as he knelt beside my bed.

He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all my sin.
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let
me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred hills, and all of them I know.;
And there I move no longer now, and now his light will shine
On wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
Oh strange and sweet it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun—
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true:
Then what is life that we should moan? why make we such
For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home—
And there to wait'a little while till you and Effie come;
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary be at
Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man; and he had been a poor
man all the days of his life, -which were not few, for his thin
hair was now waxing gray. Fie had been born and bred on
the small moorland farm which he now occupied, and he hoped
to die there, as his father and grandfather had done before

him, leaving a family just.above the more bitter wants of this
world. Labor hard and unremitting had been his lot in life';
but although sometimes severely tried, he had never repined ;
and through all the mist and gloom, and even the storms that
had assailed him, he had lived on from, year to year in that
calm and resigned contentment, which'unconsciously, cheers
the hearthstone of the blameless poor. With his own hands
he had ploughed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest,
assisted, as they grew up, by three sons, who even in boyhood
were happy to work along with their father in the fields. Out
of doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The spade,
the shears, the plough-shaft, the sickle, and the flail, all came
readily to hands that grasped them well; and not a morsel.of
food was eaten under his roof, or a garment worn, there, that
was not honestly, severely, nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie
was a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and
deep affection. The thraldom under which he lived'God had
imposed, and it only served to give his character a shade of
silent gravity, but not austere; to make his smiles fewer, but
more heartfelt; to calm his soul at grace before and after
meals, and to kindle it in the morning and evening prayer.
There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a
man. Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay . withal,
her heaven was in her house; and her gentler and weaker
hands helped to bar the door against want. Of ten children
that had been born to them, they had lost three;, and as .they
had fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they
give them who died a respectable funeral. The living did not
grudge to give up for a while some of their daily comforts for

the sake of the dead, and bought with the little sums which
their industry had saved decent mournings, worn on Sabbath;
and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two
sons were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three
daughters and two sons remained at home, growing up a
small, happy, hard-working household.
Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and
many such humble and virtuous cottagers as were now beneath
its roof of straw. The eye of the passing traveller may mark
them or mark them not, but they stand peacefully in thousands
over all the land; and most beautiful do they make it through
all its wide valleys and narrow glens—its low holms, encircled
by the rocky walls of some bonny burn—its green mounts,
elated with their little crowning groves of plane-trees—its
yellow corn-fields—its bare pastoral hill-sides, and all its
healthy moors, on whose black bosom lie shining or concealed
glades of excessive verdure, inhabited by flowers, and visited
only by the far-flying bees. Moss-side was not beautiful to a
careless or hasty eye; but when looked on and surveyed, it
seemed a pleasant dwelling. Its roof, overgrown with grass
and moss, was almost as green as the ground out of which its
weather-stained walls appeared to grow. The moss behind
it was separated from a little garden by a narrow slip of ara
ble land, the dark color of which showed that it had been
won from the wild by patient industry, and by patient indus
try retained. It required a bright sunny day to make Moss-
side fair; but then it was fair indeed: and when the little
brown moorland birds were singing their short songs among
the rushes and the heather, or a lark perhaps, lured thither

bj' some green barley-field for its undisturbed nest, rose sing
ing all over the enlivened solitude, the little bleak farm smiled
like the paradise of poverty, sad and affecting in its lone and
extreme simplicity. The boys and girls had made some pots
of flowers among the vegetables that the little garden supplied
for their homely meals; pinks and carnations, brought from
walled gardens of rich men further down in the cultivated
strath, grew here with somewhat diminished lustre; a bright
show of tulips had a strange beauty there in the moorland; and
the smell of roses mixed well with that of the clover, the
beautiful fair clover, that loves the soil and the air of Scot
land, and gives the rich and balm}^ milk to the poor'maivs lips.
In this cottage Gilbert’s }’oungest child, a girl about nine
years of age, had .been lying for a week in a fever. It was
now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of the disease. "Was
she to live, or die ? It seemed as if a very few hours were
between her and heaven. All the symptoms were those of
approaching death. The parents knew well the change that
comes over the human face, whether it be in infanc}', youth.
** or prime, just before the departure of the spirit : and as they
stood together by Margaret’s bed, it seemed to them that the
fatal shadow had fallen upon her features. The surgeon of the
parish lived some miles distant, but they expected him now
every moment, and man}' a wistful look was directed by tear
ful eyes along the moor. The daughter who was out at
service came anxiously home on this night, the only one
that could be allowed her, for the poor must work in their
grief, and servants must do their duty to those whose bread
they cat, even when nature is sick—sick at heart. Another

of the daughters came in from the potato-held beyond the
brae, with what,was to be their frugal supper. The calm,
noiseless spirit of life was in and around the house, while death
seemed dealing with one who, a few days, ago, was like light
upon the floor, and the sound of music, that always breathed
up when most wanted; glad and joyous in common talk—
swrnet, silvery, and mournful when it joined in hymn or psalm.
One after the other, they continued going up to the bed-side,
and then coming away, sobbing or silent, to see their merry
little sister, who used to keep dancing all day like a butterfly
in a meadow-held, or like a butterfly with shut wings on a
flower, trifling for a while in the silence of her joy, now.toss
ing restlessly 011 her bed, and scarcely sensible of the words of
endearment whispered around her, or the kisses dropt with
tears in spite of themselves 011 her burning forehead.
Utter poverty often kills the affections; but a deep, con
stant, and common feeling of this world’s hardships, and. an
equal participation in all those struggles by which they may
be softened, unite husband and. wife, parents and children,
brothers and sisters, in thoughtful and subdued tenderness,
making them happy indeed while the circle round the fire is
unbroken, and yet preparing them every day to bear the sep
aration, when some one or other is taken slowly or suddenly
away. Their souls are not moved by fits and starts, although
indeed nature sometimes will wrestle with necessity; and
there is a wise moderation both in the joy and the grief
of the intelligent poor, which keeps lasting trouble away from
their earthly lot, and aids to prepare them silently and uncon
sciously for heaven.

“'Do yon think the child is dying?” said Gilbert, with a
calm voice, to the surgeon, who on his wearied horse had just
arrived from another sick-bed over the misty range of hills,
and had been looking steadfastly for some minutes on the little
patient. The humane man knew the family well in the midst
of whom he was standing, and replied, “ While there is life
there is hope; but my pretty little.Margaret is, I fear, in the
last extremity.” There was no loud.lamentation at these,
words; all had before known, though they would not confess
it to themselves, what they now were told; and though the
certainty that was in the words of the skilful man made their
-hearts beat for a little with sicker throbbin'gs, made their pale
faces paler, and brought out from some eyes a greater gush of
tears, yet death had been before in this house, and he came as
he always does in awe, but not in this case in terror. There
were wandering and wavering and dreamy delirious phanta
sies in the brain of the child, but the few words she indistinctly
uttered were affecting, not rending to the heart; for it was
plain that she thought herself herding her sheep in the green
silent pastures, and sitting wrapped in her plaid upon the lawn
and sunny side of the Birk-knowe. She was too much ex
hausted to sing, but some of her words seemed to be from
favorite old songs; and at last her mother wept, and turned
aside her face, when the child, whose blue eyes were shut,
and her lips almost still, breathed out these lines of the beau
tiful twenty-third Psalm:
The Lord’s my Shepherd, I ’11 not'want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green ; he leadeth me
The quiet waters by.

The child was now left with none but her mother by the
bed-sicle, for it was said to be best so; and Gilbert and his
family sat down round the kitchen fire for a while in silence.
In about a quarter of an hour they began to rise calmly,' and
to go each to his allotted work. One of the daughters went
forth with the pail to milk the cow, and another began to set
out the table in the middle of the floor for supper, covering
it with a white cloth. Grilbert viewed the usual household
arrangements with a solemn and untroubled eye; and there
was almost the faint light of a grateful smile on his cheek, as
he said to the worthy surgeon, “You will partake of our fare
after your day’s travel and toil of humanity.” In a short, silent
half hour the potatoes and oat-cakes, butter and milk were on
the board, and Gilbert lifted up his toil-hardened, but manty
hand, with a slow motion, at which the room was hushed as if
it had been empty, closed his eyes in reverence, and asked a
blessing. There was a little stool on which no one sat by the
old man’s side. It had been put there unwittingly when the
other seats were all placed in their usual order; but the golden
head that was wont to rise at that part of the table was now
wanting. There was silence; not a word was said; their meal
was before them; God had been thanked, and they began
to eat.-
While they were at their, silent meal, a horseman came
galloping to the door, and with a loud voice called out that he
had been sent express with a letter to Gilbert Ainslie; at
the same time rudely, and with an oath, demanding a dram
for his trouble. The eldest son, a lad of eighteen, fiercely
seized the bridle of his horse, and turned his head away from

the door. The rider, somewhat alarmed at the flushed face
of the powerful stripling, threw down the letter and rode off.
Gilbert took the letter from his son’s hand, casting at the same
time a lialf-upbraiding look on his face, that w r as returning to
its former color, “I feared,” said the youth, with a tear in
his eye, “I feared that the brute’s voice and the trampling of
the horse’s feet would have disturbed her.” Gilbert held the
letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if afraid at the moment to
read it. At length he said aloud to the surgeon, “You know
that I am a poor man, and debt, if justly incurred and punc
tually paid when-due, is no dishonor.” Both his hand and
his voice shook slightly as he spoke; -but he opened the letter
from the lawyer, and read it in silence. . At this moment his
wife came from her child’s bed-side, and looking anxiously at
her.husband, told him “not to mind about the money; that
no man who knew him would arrest his goods or put him in
prison; though,.dear me, it is cruel to be put to it thus when
our bairn is dying, and when, if so be the Lord’s will, she
should have a decent burial, like them that went before her.”
Gilbert continued reading the letter, with a face on which 110
emotion could be discovered; . and then folding it up, he gave
it to his wife, told her she might read it' if she chose, and then
put it into his desk in the room beside the poor dear bairn.
She took it from him without reading it, and crushed it into
her bosom; for she turned her ear towards her child, and
thinking she heard it stir, ran out hastily to its bed-side.
Another.hour of trial passed, and the child was still swim
ming for its life. The very dogs knew there was grief in the
house, and lay without stirring, as if hiding themselves, below

the long table-at the window. One sister sat with an unfin
ished gown on her knees, that she had been sewing foi the
dear child, and still continued at the hopeless work, she scarcely
knew why, and often, often putting up her hand to wipe away
a tear. “ What is that?” said the old man to his eldest daugh
ter; “what is that'you are laying on the shelf?” She could
scarcely reply that it was a riband and an ivory comb she .had
bought for little Margaret. And at these words the father
could not restrain a long, deep, and bitter groan ; at which
the boy nearest in age to his dying sister looked up weeping
in his face, and letting the tattered book of old ballads, which
he had been poring on but not reading, fall out of his hands,
he rose from his seat, and going into his father’s bosom, kissed
him, and asked God to bless him; for the tender heart of the
boy was moved within him; and the old man, as he embraced
him, felt that in his affection and simplicity he was indeed a
comforter. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord.taketli away,”,
said the old man; “blessed be the name of the Lord.”
The outer door gently opened,, and he. whose .presence had
in former years brought peace and resignation hither, when
their hearts had been tried even as they now were tried,
stood before them. On the night before the Sabbath, the
minister of Aucliindown never left his manse except as now,
to visit the sick or dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to
his first question about his child, when the surgeon came from
the bed-room and said, “Margare-t seems lifted up by . God’s
hand above death and the grave; I. think she will recover.
She has fallen asleep; and when she wakes I hope—I believe—
that the danger will be past, and that your child will .live.”

They were all prepared for death; but now they were
found unprepared for life. One wept, that had till then locked
up all her tears within her heart; another gave a short palpi
tating shriek; and the tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed
the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The youngest
brother gave way to gladsome smiles; and calling out his dog
Hector, who used to sport with him and his little sister on the
moor, lie told the tidings to the dumb, irrational creature,
whose eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort of joy. The
clock for some days had been prevented from striking the
hours, but the silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine; and
that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour of
family worship. His own honored minister took the book.
He waled a portion with judicious care ;
And, let ns worship God, he said, with solemn air.
A chapter was read, a prayer raised, and so too was sung a
psalm ; but it was sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest the
child’s saving sleep might be broken; and now and then the
female voices trembled, or some one of them ceased altogether;
for there had been tribulation and anguish, and now hope and
faith were tried in the joy of thanksgiving.
The child still slept; and its sleep seemed more sound and
deep. It appeared almost certain that , the crisis was over,
and that the flower was not to fade. “Children,” said Gil
bert, “ our happiness is in the love we bear to one another;
and our duty is in submitting to and serving God. Gracious
indeed has he been unto us. Is not the recovery of our little
darling, dancing, singing Margaret worth all the gold that ever
was mined? If we had had thousands of thousands, would

we not have filled up her grave with the worthless dross of
gold, rather than she should have gone down there with her
sweet face and all her rosy smiles ?” There was no reply, but
a joyful sobbing, all over the room.
“Never mind the letter nor the debt, father,” said the
eldest daughter; “we have all some little thing of our own,
a few pounds, and we shall be able to raise as much as will
keep arrest and prison at a distance;, or if they do take our
furniture out of the house, all except Margaret’s bed, who
cares ? we will sleep on the floor; and there are potatoes in
the field, and clear water in the spring; we need fear nothing,
want nothing; blessed be God for all his mercies.”
(filbert went into the sick-room, and got the letter from
his wife, who was sitting at the head of the bed watching, with
a heart blessed beyond all bliss, the calm and regular breath
ings of her child. “ This letter,” said he mildly, “ is not from
a hard creditor; come with me while I read it aloud to our
children.” The letter was read aloud; and it was well fitted
to diffuse pleasure and satisfaction through the dwelling of
poverty. It was from an executor to the will of a distant rel
ative, who had left Gilbert Ainslie £1,500. “ The sum,” said
Gilbert, “ is a large one to folks like us, but not, I hope, large
enough to turn our heads, or make us think ourselves all. lords
and ladies. It will do more, far more than put me fairly above
the world at last. I believe that with it I may buy this very
farm on which, my forefathers have toiled. But God, whose
providence has sent this temporal blessing, may he send us
wisdom and prudence how to use it, and humble and grateful
hearts to us all.”

“ You will be able to send me to school all the year round
now, father,” said the youngest boy. “And you may leave
the flail to your sons now, father,”' said the eldest. “You
may hold the plough still, for you draw a straighter furrow than
any of us; but hard work for young sinews; and you may sit
now oftener in your arm-chair by the ingle. You will not
need to rise now in the dark winter mornings, and keep
threshing corn for hours before dawn.”
There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little
sleep in Moss-side between the rising and setting of the stars
that were now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling,
over the unclouded sky. Those who had lain down for an
hour or two in bed, could scarcely be said to have slept; and
when about morning little Margaret awoke, an altered crea
ture, pale, languid, and unable to turn herself on her lowly
bed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affec
tion in her heart, and coolness in all her veins, a happy group
were watching the first faint smile that broke over her fea
tures ; and never did one who stood there forget that Sabbath
morning, on which she seemed to look round upon them all
with a gaze of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one half con
scious of having been rescued from the power of the grave.
The Family i3ibh\
How painfully pleasing the fond recollection
Of youthful emotions and innocent joy,
When blest with parental advice and affection,
Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high 1

I still view the chairs of my sire and my mother,
The seats of their offspring, as ranged 011 each hand,
And that richest'book, which excels every other,
The family Bible which jay on the stand:
The old-fashioned Bible,
The dear, blessed Bible,
The family Bible that lay on the stand.
That Bible, the volume of G-od’s inspiration,
At morn and at evening could yield us delight;
The prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation
For mercy by day, and for safety through night.
Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling,
All warm from the hearts of a family band,
Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling
Described in the Bible that lay on the stand;
The old-fashioned Bible,
The dear, blessed Bible,
The family Bible that lay on the stand.
Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted ;
My hopes almost gone, and my parents no more;
I11 sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted,
And wander unknown on a far-distant shore.
Yet how can I doubt a dear Saviour’s protection,
Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand!
Oh, let me with patience receive his correction,
And think of the Bible that lay on the stand;
The old-fashioned Bible,
The dear, blessed Bible,
The family Bible that lay on the stand.

JJural Jlbp
Oh, knew lie but his happiness, of men
The happiest he, who, far from public rage,
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired,
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life.
What though the dome be wanting, whose proud gate
Each morning vomits out the sneaking crowd
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused ?
Yile intercourse ! What though the glittering robe
Of every hue reflected light can give,
Or floating loose, or stiff with massy gold,
The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not:
What though from utmost land and sea purveyed,
For him each rarer tributary life
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps

With, luxury and death? What though his bowl
Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds,
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night,
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ?
What though he knows not those fantastic joys
That still amuse the wanton, still, deceive;
A face of pleasure., but a heart of pain;
Their hollow moments undeliglited all ?
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged
To disappointment and fallacious hope:
Rich in content, in Nature’s bounty rich,
In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the spring,
When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough
When summer reddens, and when autumn beams;
Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies
Concealed, and fattens with the richest sap:
These are not wanting; nor the milky drove,
Luxuriant, spread o’er all the lowing vale;
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere
Into the guileless breast, beneath the shade,
Or thrown at. large amid the fragrant hay;
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song,
Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear.
Here too dwells simple truth, plain innocence,
Unsullied beauty, sound unbroken youth,
Patient of labor, with a little pleased;
Health ever blooming, unambitious toil,
Calm contemplation, and poetic ease.

The rage of nations and the crush of states
Move not the man who, from the world escaped,
In still retreats and flowery solitudes
To Nature’s voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, through the revolving year;
Admiring sees her in her every shape;
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart;
Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more.
The touch of kindred too and love he feels;
The modest eye, whose beams on his alone
Ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace
Of prattling children, twined around his neck,
And emulous to please him, calling forth
The fond paternal soul. Thomson.
TIuj gwiss Mtagrtp
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children’s looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board;
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;

And e’en those ills that round his mansion rise
Enhance the bliss his scanty food supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child whom scaring sounds molest .
Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast,
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind’s' roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.
m mir,
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Locked up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ;
The violet bed’s not sweeter. mtddleton.
I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for
tune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man
and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the ener
gies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation
to their character that at times it approaches to sublimity.
Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and ten
der female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and
alive to every trivial roughness while treading the prosperous
paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the com
forter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and
abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest blasts of ad
versity. ■ . - . •

As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage
about the oak, and been lifted by-it into sunshine, will, when
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling around it
with its caressing tendrils and bind up its shattered boughs,
so is it beautifully ordered by Providence that woman, who
is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud
den calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding
up the broken heart.
I was once congratulating a friend who had around him a
blooming family knit together in the strongest affection. “I
can wish you no better lot,” said he with enthusiasm, “ than
to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there
they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they
are to comfort you.” And indeed I have observed that a
married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve
his situation in the world than a single one; partly because
he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the
helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for sub
sistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and re
lieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept
alive by finding that though all abroad is darkness and humil
iation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which
he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to
waste and self-neglect, to fancy himself lonely and abandoned,
and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for
want of an inhabitant. -
These observations call to mind a little domestic story of

which-I was once a witness. My intimate friend Leslie had
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample, and lie
delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies
that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. “Her life, 7 ''
said he, “ shall be like a fairy tale. 77
The very difference in their characters produced a harmo
nious combination; he was of a romantic and somewhat seri
ous cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed
the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in com
pany/of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ;
and how in the midst of applause, her eye would turn still to
him as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When
leaning on his arm her slender form contrasted finely with his
tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she
looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant
pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely
burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set for
ward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage
with a fairer prospect of felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em
barked his property in large speculations; and he had not
been married many months when, by a succession of sudden
disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced
to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to him
self, and went about with a haggard countenance and a break
ing heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what

rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping
up a smile in the presence of his wife, for he could not bring
himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however,
with the quick eyes of affection that all was not well with him.
She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to
be deceived by his sickly and vapid.attempts at cheerfulness.
She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments
to win him back to happiness, but she only drove the arrow
deeper into his soul.. The more he saw cause to love her, the
more torturing was the thought that, he was soon to make her
wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will van
ish from that cheek,, the song will die away from those lips,
the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow, and the
happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom will be
weighed down like mine by the. cares and miseries of the
At length he came to me one day ;and related his whole
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard
him. through, I inquired, “Does your wife know all this?”
At the question he burst into an agony of tears. “Ah,” cried
lie, “if you have any pity on me, don’t mention my wife: it
is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness.”
“And why not?” said I; “she must know it sooner or
later; you cannot keep it. long from her, and the intelligence
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im
parted by yourself, for the accents of those we love soften the
harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the
comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also en
dangering the only bond that can keep hearts together, an

unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon
perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind;
and true love will not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and
outraged when even the sorrows of those it loves are con
cealed from it.”
“Oh, but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give
to all her future prospects; how I am to strike her very soul
to the earth by telling her that her husband is a beggar • that
she is to forego all the elegancies of life, all the pleasures of
society, to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity. To
tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in
which she might have continued to move in constant bright
ness, the light of every eye, the admiration, of every heart.
How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all
the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She
has been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart, it
will break her heart.”
I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow, for
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had
subsided and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi
“But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the
alteration of your circumstances. Yon must change your style
of living—nay,” observing a pang to pass across his counte
nance, “don’t let that afflict you. I am sure you have never
placed your happiness in outward show; you have yet friends,

warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being
less splendidly lodged; and surely it does.not require a pal
ace to. be happy with Mary—” “ I could be happy with her,”
cried he convulsively, “in a hovel. I could go'down with
her into poverty and the dust: I could—I nould— : G-od bless
her, G-od bless her!” cried he, bursting into a transport of
grief and tenderness.
“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping up and
grasping him warmly by the hand, “believe me, she can be
the same with you. Aye, more: it will be a source of pride
and triumph to her; it will call forth all the latent energies
and fervent sympathies of her nature, for she will rejoice to
prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true
woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire which lies dormant in
the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and
beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man
knows what the wife of his bosom is—no man knows what a
ministering angel she is, until he has gone with her through
the fiery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner and
the figurative style of my language that caught the excited im
agination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ;
and following up the impression I had made, I finished by
persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to
his wife.
I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the for
titude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ?
Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of

low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling
to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Be
sides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many gall
ing mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger.
In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without
trepidation. He had made the disclosure.
“And how did she bear it?”
“Like an angel. It seemed rather to be a relief to‘her
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor
girl,” added he, “ she cannot realize the change we must un
dergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; she
has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She
feels as yet no privation; she suffers no loss of accustomed
conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to
experience, its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humili
ations, then will be the real trial.”
“ But,” said I, “ now that you have got over the severest
task, that of breaking it to her; the sooner you let the world
into the secret the better. The disclosure mortifying;
but then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas you
otherwise suffer it in anticipation every hour in the day. It
is not poverty so much as pretence that harasses a ruined
man—the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse,
the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end.
Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of
its sharpest sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly
prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife,
she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes.

Some clays afterwards he called upon me in the evening.
He had disposed of his dwelling-house and taken a small cot
tage in the : country, a few miles from town. He had been bus
ied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment
required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the
■ splendid* furniture of his late residence had been sold, except
ing.his wife’s.harp. That, he said, was too closely associated
with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their
loves; for some of the sw.eetest moments of their courtship
wore those, when he had leaned over that instrument and lis
tened To the melting tones of her voice. . I could not but smile
at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.
. He -was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings
had become strongly interested? in the progress of this family
story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany
He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we
' 'Walked out fell into a fit of gloomy musing.
“ Poor Mary!” at length broke with a heavy sigh from his
“And what of her?” asked I; “has any thing happened
to her ?”
“What,” said lie, darting an impatient glance, “is it noth
ing to be reduced to this- paltry situation—to be caged in a
miserable cottage—to be obliged to toil almost in the menial
concerns of her wretched habitation ?”
“ Has she then repined at the change ?”
“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good-

lmmor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than ever; she
has been to me all love and tenderness and comfort.”
“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself poor,
my friend; you never were so rich, you never knew the bound
less treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman.”
“Oh, but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is
her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into
a humble dwelling; she has been employed all day in arrang
ing its miserable equipments; she has for the first time known
the fatigues of domestic employment; she may now be sitting
down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of
future poverty.”, _ •
There was a degree of probability in this picture that I
could not gainsay, so we walked on in.silence.
After turning from the jnain road np a .narrow lane, so
thickly shaded by forest-trees as to give it a complete air of
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet, and yet
it had a pleasing rural look. As we approached, we heard
the sound of music. Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and
listened. It was Mary’s voice, singing a little air of which
her husband was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie’s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for
ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the
gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the win
dow, and vanished, a light footstep was heard, and Mary came
tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of
white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh

bloom was 011 her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with
smiles ; I had never seen her look so lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are
come; I have been watching and watching for you, and run
ning down the lane and looking out for you. I ; ve set out a
table uhder a beautiful tree behind the cottage, and 1 7 ve been
gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know
you are fond of them; and we have such excellent cream, and
everything is so sweet and still here. Oh, 77 said she, putting
her arm within his and looking up brightly in his face, “ Oh,
we shall be so happy. 77
Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom;
he folded his arms around her; he kissed her again and again ;
he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and
he has often assured me, that though the w T orld has since gone
prosperously with him, yet never has he experienced a mo
ment of more exquisite felicity. ieying.
jgdMmqj mi f<rt?
Two little busy hands patting on the window,
Two laughing bright eyes looking out at me;
Two rosy-red cheeks dented with a dimple:
Mother-bird is coming; baby, do you see ?
Down by the lilac-bush, something white and azure
Saw I in the window as I passed the tree;
Well I knew the apron and shoulder-knots of ribbon
All belonged to baby, looking out for me.

Talking low and tenderly
To myself as mothers will, ,
Spoke I softly, “God in heaven
Keep my darling free from ill.
Worldly gain and worldly honors
Ask I not for her from thee;
But from want and sin and sorrow
Keep her ever pure and free.”
Two little waxen hands
Folded soft and silently ;
Two little curtained eyes,
Looking out no more for me;
Two little snowy cheeks,
Dimple-dented nevermore ;
Two little trodden shoes,
That will never touch the floor;
Shoulder-ribbon softly twisted,
Apron folded, clean and white:
These are left me, and these only,
Of the childish presence bright.
Thus He sent an answer to my earnest praying,
Thus he keeps my darling free from earthly stain,
Thus he folds the pet lamb safe from earthly straying;
But I miss her sadly from the window-pane—
Till I look above it; then with purer vision,
Sad, I weep no more the lilac-bush to pass,
For I see her, angel-pure and white and sinless,
Walking with the harpers by the sea of glass.

Two little snowy wings
Softly flutter to and fro,
Two tiny childish hands
Beckon still to me below;
Two tender angel eyes
Watch me ever earnestly;
Through the loopholes of the stars
Baby’s looking out for me.
Afar from thee the morning breaks,
But morning brings no joy to me;
Alas, my spirit only wakes
To know I am afar from thee.
In dreams I saw thy blessed face,
And thou wert nestled 011 my breast;
In dreams I felt thy fond embrace,
And to my own thy heart was pressed.
Afar from thee ! ; T is solitude,
Though smiling crowds around me be—
The. kind, the beautiful, the good ;
For I can -only think of thee—'
Of thee, the kindest/ loveliest' best,
My earliest and my only one;
Without thee I am all unblest,
And wholly blest with thee alone.

Afar from thee ! The words of praise
My listless ear unheeded greet;
What sweetest seemed in better days,
Without thee seems no longer sweet;
The dearest joy fame can bestow
Is in thy moistened eye to see,
And in thy cheek’s unusual glow,
Thou deem’st me not unworthy thee.
Afar from thee ! The night is come,
But slumbers from my pillow flee;
I cannot rest so far from home,
And my heart’s home is, love, with thee.
I kneel before the throne of prayer,
And then I know that thou art nigh,
For God, who seeth everywhere,
Bends on us both his watchful eye.
Together in his loved embrace,
No distance can our hearts divide;
Forgotten quite 1 the ’mediate space,
I kneel thy kneeling form beside;
. My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep,
But soars the spirit far and free;
0 welcome be night’s slumbers deep,
For then, dear love, I am with thee.

Oh, true and faithful, pure and brave,
Must be the heart that rules my own—
A sceptred sovereign on love's throne—
Neither a tyrant, nor a slave.

f ftq gjnnu>ยงforWv
Two cottagers, husband and wife, were sitting by their
cheerful pcat-fire one winter evening, in a small lonely hut on
the edge of a wide Scottish moor, at some miles distance from
any other habitation. Its little end window, now lighted up,
was the only ground-star that, shone towards the belated trav
eller, if any such ventured to cross, on a winter night, a scene
so dreary and desolate. The affairs of the small household
were all arranged for the night. The little rough pony that
had drawn in a sledge, from the heart of the Black-Moss, the
fuel by whose blaze the cotters were now sitting cheerily, and
the little Highland cow, whose milk enabled them to live,
were standing amicably together, under cover of a rude shed,
of which one side was formed by the peat-stack, and which
was at once byre and stable and hen-roost. Within, the
clock ticked cheerfully as the fire-light reached its old oak-
wood case across the yellow-sanded floor ; and a small round
table stood between, covered with a snow-white cloth, on which
were milk and oat-cakes, the morning, mid-day, and evening
meal of these frugal and contented cotters. The spades and
the mattocks of the laborer were collected into one corner,
and showed that the succeeding day was the blessed Sabbath ;
while on the wooden chimney-piece was seen lying an open
Bible ready for. family worship.
The father and mother were sitting together without open
ing their lips, but with their hearts overflowing with happi
ness, for on this Saturday night they were every minute ex
pecting to hear at the latch the hand of their only daughter, a

maiden of-about fifteen years, who was at service with a farm
er over the -hills. This dutiful child was, as they knew, to
bring home to them “her sair-worn'penny: fee,“ a pittance
which, in' the .beauty of her- girlhood, she earned singing at her
work, and--which in the benignity of that. happy time she
would pour with “ears into the bosoms she so dearly loved.
Forty shillings a year, were all the wages of sweet Hannah
Lee; but though she wore at her labor a tortoise-shell comb
in her auburn hair, and though in the kirk none were more
becomingly arrayed than she, one half, at least, of her earn
ings were to be reserved; and her kind innocent heart was
gladdened when she looked on the little purse that was, on the
long-expected Saturday night, to be taken from her bosom, and
put, with a blessing, into the hand of her father, now growing
old at his daily toils.
Of such a child the happy cotters were thinking in their
silence. And well indeed might they be called happy. It is
at that sweet season that filial piety is most beautiful. Their
own Hannah had just outgrown the mere unthinking gladness
of childhood, but had not yet reached, that time when inevita
ble selfishness mixes with the pure current of love. She had
begun to think 011 what her affectionate heart had left so long;
and when she looked 011 the pale face and bending frame of her
mother, on the deepening wrinkles and whitening hairs of the
father, often would she lie weeping for their sakes 011 her mid
night bed, and wish that she were beside them as they slept,
that she might kneel down and kiss them, and mention their
names over and over again in her prayer. The parents whom
before she had only loved, her expanding heart now also ven-

erated. With gushing tenderness was'now mingled a holy
fear and an awful reverence. She had discerned the relation
in which she, an only child, stood to her poor parents, now that
they were getting old, and there was not a passage in Scripture
that spoke - of parents or of children, from Joseph sold into
slavery, to Mary weeping below the cross, that was not writ
ten, never to be obliterated, on her young heart.
“She is growing up to be abonnie lassie,” said the mother:
“her long and weary, attendance on me during my fever last
spring, kept her down a while; but now she is sprouting fast
and fair as a lily, and may the blessing of God be as dew and
as sunshine to our sweet flower all the days she bloometh upon
this earth.” “Aye, Agnes,” readied the father, “we are not
very old yet—-though we are getting older—and a few years
will bring her to woman’s estate; and what thing on this earth,
think you, human or brute, would ever think of injuring her?
Why, I was speaking about her yesterday to the minister as
lie was riding by, and he told me that none answered at the
examination in the kirk so well as Hannah. Poor thing, I
well think she has all the heart; indeed she has read
but little else—only some stories, too true ones, of the bless
ed, martyrs, and some o’ the auld sangs o’ Scotland, in which
there is nothing but what is good, and which, to be sure, she
sings, God bless her, sweeter than any laverock.” “Aye, were
we both, to die this very night she would be happy. Not that
she would forget us all the days of her life. But have you not
seen, husband, that God always makes the orphan happy?
None so little lonesome as they. They come to make friends
o’ all the bonny and sweet things in the world around them,

and all the kind hearts in the world make o’ them. They
come to know that God is more especially the Father o’ them
on earth whose parents he has taken np to heaven, and there
fore it is that they for whom so. many have fears, fear not at
all for themselves, but go dancing and singing chil
dren whose parents are both alive.”
Little Hannah Lee had left her master’s house soon as the rim
of The great moon was seen by her eyes, that had been long
anxiously watching it from the window, rising like a joyful dream
over the gloomy mountain-tops; and all by herself she tripped
along beneath the beauty of the silent heaven. Still as she
kept ascending and descending the knolls that lay in the bosom
of the glen, she sung'to herself a song, a hymn, or a psalm,
without the accompaniment of the streams, now all silent in the
frost; and ever and anon she stopped to try to count the stars
that'lay in some more beautiful part of the sky, or gazed on
the constellations that she knew, and called them, in her joy,
by the names they bore among the shepherds. There, were
none to hear her voice or see her smiles but the ear and eye
of Providence. As on she glided, and took her looks from
heaven, she saw her own little fireside—her parents waiting for
•her arrival; the Bible opened for worship ; her own little
room kept so neatly for her, with its mirror hanging by the
window, in which to braid her hair by the morning light; her
bed prepared for her by her mother’s hand ;; the primroses in
'the garden peeping through the snow; old Tray, who ever
welcomed her home with his dim white eyes, the.pony,: and
the cow: 'friends -'all, and inmates of that happy household. So
stepped she along, while the snow diamonds glittered around

her feet, and the frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her
She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which lay
half way between her master’s and her father’s dwelling, when
she heard a loud noise coming down Glen-scrae, and in a few
seconds she felt on her face some flakes of snow. She looked
up the glen, and saw the snow-storm coming down fast as a
flood. She felt no fears, but she ceased her song; and had
there been a human eye to look upon her there, it might have
seen a shadow on her face. She continued her course, and
felt bolder and bolder every step that brought her nearer to
her parents’house. But the snow-storm had now reached the
Black-moss,. and the broad line of light that had lain in the
direction of her home, was soon swallowed up, and the child
was in utter darkness. She saw nothing but the flakes of snow
interminably intermingled, and furiously wafted in the air
close to lier head; she heard nothing but one wild, fierce, fitful
howl. The cold became intense, and her little feet and hands
were fast being benumbed into insensibility.
“It is a fearful change,” muttered the child to herself; but
still she did not fear, for she had been born in a moorland col
lage, and lived all her days among the hardships of the hills.
“What will become of the poor sheep?” thought she; but still
she scarcely thought, of her own danger, for innocence and
youth and joy arc slow to think of aught evil befalling them
selves; and thinking benignly of all living things, forget their
own fear in their pity for others’ sorrow. At last she could
no longer discern a single mark on the snow, either of human
steps, or of sheep-track, or the foot-print of a wild-fowl. Sud-

derily too she felt out of breath arid exhausted, and shedding
tears for herself at last, sank down in the snow.
The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed; and
scarcely had her little hands strength to clasp themselves to
gether, as the thought of an overruling and merciful Lord came
across her heart, Then indeed the fears of this child Were
calmed, and she heard without terror the plover’s wailing cry,
and the deep boom of the bittern sounding in the moss. “I
will repeat the Lord’s prayer ;” and' drawing her plaid more
closely around her, she whispered, beneath its ineffectual cover,
“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed by thy name; thy
kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
Had human aid been within fifty yards, it could have been of
no avail: eye could not see her, ear could not hear her in that
howling darkness. But that low prayer was heard in the centre
of eternity, and that sweet girl was lying in the snow beneath
the all-seeing eye of God.
The maiden having prayed to her Father in heaven, then
thought of her father on earth. Alas, they were not far sep
arated. The father was lying but a short distance from his
child; he too had sunk down in the drifting snow, after having
in less than an hour exhausted all the strength of fear, pity,
hope, despair, and resignation that could rise in a father’s
heart blindly seeking to rescue his only child from death,
thinking that one desperate exertion might enable them to
perish in each other’s arms. There they lay, within a stone’s
throw of each other, while a huge snow-drift was every mo
ment piling itself up into a more insurmountable barrier be
tween the dying parent and his dying child.

Hannah Lee had been a servant for more than six months,
and it is not to be thought that she was not beloved in her
master’s family. Soon after she had left the house, her mas
ter’s son, a youth of about eighteen years, who had been
among the hills looking after the sheep, came home, and was
disappointed to find that he had lost an opportunity of accom
panying Hannah part of the way to her father’s cottage. But
the hour of eight had gone by, and not even the company of
young William Grieve could induce the kind-hearted daugh
ter to delay setting out on her journey beyond the time prom
ised to her parents. “I do not like the night,” said William •
“there will be a fresh fall of snow soon, for a snow-cloud is
hanging o’er the Birch-tree-lin, and it may be down to the
Black-moss as soon as Hannah Lee.” So he called his two
sheep-dogs that had taken their place under the long table
before the window, and set out, half in joy, half in fear, to
overtake Hannah, and see her safely across the Black-moss.
The snow began to drift so fast, that before he had reached
the head of the glen, there was nothing to be seen but a little
bit of the wooden rail of the bridge across the Sauch-burn.
William Grieve was the most active shepherd in a large pas
toral parish ■ he had often passed the night among the wintry
hills for the sake of a few sheep, and all the snow that ever
fell from the heavens would not have made him turn back
when Hannah Lee was before him, and, as his Terrified heart
told him, in imminent danger of being lost. As he advanced,
he felt that it was no longer a walk of love or friendship, for
which he had been glad of an excuse. Death stared him in
the face, and his young soul, now beginning to feel all the

passions of yontli, was filled with frenzy. He had seen Hannah
every day—at the fireside, at work, in the kirk, on holidays,
at prayers, bringing supper to his aged parents, smiling and
singing about the house from morning till night. She had
often brought his own meal to him among the hills; and he
now found, though he had never talked to her about love, ex
cept smilingly and playfully, that he loved her beyond father
or mother or his own life. “I. will save thee, Hannah,” he
cried with a loud sob, “or lie down beside thee in the snow;
and we will die together in our youth.” He knew the path
that Hannah must have taken, and went forward shouting
aloud, and stopping every twenty yards to listen for a voice.
He'sent his well-trained dogs over the- snow in all directions,
repeating to them her name, “Hannah Lee,” that the dumb
animals might, in their sagacity, know for whom they were
searching; and they looked up in his face, and set off to scour
the moor, .eager to find in her bewilderment the kind maiden
by whose, hand they had so often been fed . Often went they
off into the darkness, and as often returned, but their looks
showed that every quest had been in vain. Meanwhile the
snow was of a fearful depth, and falling without intermission
or diminution. Still there was no trace of poor Hannah Lee;
and one of his dogs at last came close to his feet, worn out
entirely, and afraid to leave its master, while the other was
mute, and as the shepherd thought, probably unable to force
its way out of some hollow or through some floundering drift.
Suddenly there was a lowness in the air, and he heard the
barking of his absent dog, while the one at his feet hurried off
in the direction of the sound, and soon loudly joined the cry.

It was not a bark of surprise, or anger, or fear, but of recog
nition ancl love. William sprang from his bed in the snow,
and with his heart knocking at his bosom even to sickness, he
rushed headlong through the drifts with a giant’s .strength,
and fell down half dead with joy and terror beside the body
of Hannah Lee.
But he soon recovered from that fit, and lifting the cold
corpse in his arms, he kissed her lips, and her cheeks, and
her forehead, and her closed eyes, till, as he kept gazing on
her face in utter despair, her head fell back on his shoulder,
and a long, deep sigh came from her inmost bosom. “ She is
yet alive, thank God!” and as that expression left his lips for
the first time that night, he felt a pang of remorse: “I said,
0 God, that thou hadst forsaken us; I am not worthy to be
saved; but let not this maiden perish, for the sake of her par
ents, who have no other child.” The distracted youth prayed
to God with the same earnestness as if he had been beseech
ing a fellow-creature in whose hands was the power of life
and of death. The presence of the great Being was felt by
him in the dark and howling wild, and strength was imparted
to him as to a deliverer. He bore along the fair child in his
arms, even as if she had been a lamb.
The short-lived rage of the storm was now over, and Will
iam could attend to the beloved being, on his bosom. The
warmth of his heart seemed to infuse life into hers; and as he
gently placed her feet on the snow, till he muffled her up in
his plaid, as well as in her own, she made an effort to. stand,
and with extreme perplexity and bewilderment, faintly inquir
ed where she was, and what fearful misfortune had befallen

them. She was, however, too weak to walk; and as her young-
master carried her along, she murmured, “0 William, what
if my father he in the moor? For if you, who need care so
little about me, have come’ to save my life, you may be sure
that my father sat not within doors during the storm.” As
she spoke, there came staggering forward the figure of a man.
“Father, father!” cried Hannah, and his gray hairs were al
ready on her cheek. The barking of the dogs and the shout
ing of the young shepherd had struck his ear as the sleep of
death was stealing over him, and with the last effort of be
numbed nature he had roused himself from that fatal torpor,
and pressed through the snow-wreath that had separated him
from his child. As yet the}- knew not of the danger each had
endured; but they judged of each other’s suffering from their
own, and father and daughter regarded one another as crea
tures rescued, and hardly yet rescued, from death.
But a few minutes ago, and the three human beings who
loved each other so well, and now feared not to cross the moor
in safety, were, as they thought, on their death-beds. Deliv
erance now shone upon them all like a gentle fire, dispelling
that pleasant but deadly drowsiness; and the old man was
soon able to assist William Grieve in leading Hannah along
through the snow. Tier color and her warmth returned, and
her lover—for so might he well now be called—felt her heart
gently beating against his side. Filled as that heart was with
gratitude to God, joy in her deliverance, love to her father,
and purest affection for her master's son, never before had the
innocent maiden known what was happiness, and never more
was she to forget it. The night was now almost calm, and fast

returning to its former beauty, wlien the party saw the first
twinkle of the fire through the low window of the cottage of
the moor.
There is little need to speak of returning warmth and re
turning strength. They had all now power to weep, and power
to pray. The Bible had been lying in its place ready for
worship, and the father read aloud that chapter in which is
narrated our Saviour’s act of miraculous power, by which he
saved Peter from the sea. Soon as the solemn thoughts awa
kened by that act of mercy so similar to that which had res
cued themselves from death had subsided, and they had all
risen up from prayer, they gathered in gratitude round the
little table which had stood so many hours spread, and ex
hausted nature was strengthened and restored by a frugal and
simple meal partaken of in silent thankfulness. The whole
story of the night was then recited, and when the mother heard
how the stripling had followed her sweet Hannah into the
storm, and borne.her in his arms through a hundred drifted
heaps, and then looked upon her in her pride, so young and
so beautiful, she knew that were the child indeed to become
an orphan, there was one who would guard and cherish her all
the days of her life.
The innocent maiden still called him her young master, but
was not ashamed of the affection which she now 1 knew that she
had long felt for the fearless youth on whose bosom she had
thought herself dying in that cold and miserable moor. Her
heart leaped within her when she heard her parents bless him
by his name; and when he took her hand into his before them,
and vowed before that Power who had that night saved them

from the snow, that Hannah Lee should ere long be his wed
ded wife, she wept and sobbed as if her heart would break in
a fit of strange and insupportable happiness.
The young shepherd rose to bid them farewell: “ My father
will think I am lost,” said he, with.a grave smile, “and my
Hannah’s mother knows what it is to fear for a child.” So
nothing was said to detain him, and the family went with him
to the door. The skies smiled as serenely as if a storm had
never swept before the stars; the moon was sinking from her
meridian, but in cloudless splendor. Danger there was none
over the placid night scene: the happy youth soon crossed the
Black-moss, now perfectly still; and perhaps just as he was
passing, with a shudder of gratitude, the very spot where his
sweet Hannah Lee had so nearly perished, she was lying down
to sleep in her happiness, or dreaming of one now
her than all on earth but her parents. wilson.
§« §ivjpt w ths* §<rusjp
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful, beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed, as we shall know for ever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths—angels that are to be,'

Or m&y. be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air—
A child, a.friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
Mw gntfyrsaa wi| la,
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had vd J ane anither:
Yow we maun totter down, John,
But hand and hand we ’11 go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.-
"gad;5 fat; JaTur JJandaU/'
It was a matter of talk that Widow Bandall knit so many
socks for the soldiers. She.was a poor woman and had little
to do with, but she must have spent a great deal of money for

yarn, buying so much of the best at war prices. Knitting
seemed almost a mania with her. She was sometimes seen
knitting before breakfast. No sooner was her housework done,
then Out came her knitting, and her needles flew, click, click,
faster even than they did when her fingers were young
and supple; while her pale, sad face bending above them
made one almost weep to look at her. She was one of those
who do not weep, but who ever carry a full fountain of tears
sealed up within them.
Not a society box in all the country near was sent to the
soldiers that did not contain a pair of Widow Randall’s socks;
and box after box from the Sanitary Commission carried her
contributions. Always welcome they were, so soft, so warm,
so nice were her socks; none softer, nor warmer, nor nicer
were found among the gifts of the loving women of the North,
to their cherished, half-worshipped heroes on the Southern
battle-grounds. The appreciative could not help unrolling
them, feeling their softness, and giving them their praise; and
always carefully stitched within them they found a letter.
Sometimes it was only, “To my dear son John Randall, from
his ever loving mother;” sometimes it told of her love and hope,
and earnest prayer; sometimes it implored him to write to her
and tell her that he lived, and tell her of his welfare if he lived.
It was a long time that Widow Randall knit on untiringly,
scattering her gifts as widely as she might, that so by chance
some one might reach the lost loved one. Knit, knit, knit;
the longer she knit, the faster, for-the more must be done,
since the chances were growing fewer, the field growing wider.
How many soldiers were thus blessed through her love for one!

How many: felt a glow of thanks as they drew her comforting
socks oyer their benumbed, feet, and dropped a tear upon her
tender letter to the son who might then be perishing uncared
for, unknowing how a mother’s love had sought for him, labor
ed for him, prayed for him unceasingly.
A pair of “socks for John. Randall” once fell into the*
hands of a poor motherless English boy. His lone, yearning,
orphan heart responded to the maternal tenderness which he
had missed and mourned for in his own life; and with the in
stincts of a son he wrote the widowed mother a letter of love
and thanks in the name of all the absent and wandering sons,
and sent her gold, and offered to be to her a son, if (rod had
bereaved her of her own.
An old soldier, a rough, hard, swearing man, was given a
pair of “John Randall’s socks,” and carelessly drawing them
upon his travel-stained feet, he felt the mother’s letter in them.
He drew them off with an oath, and read, “To my well-belov
ed John.” Was it to him? His name was John. So his
mother had.addressed him once; but he had no mother now.
She had been long dead, and no one would write him now; no
one cared for him; and he had tried to think that he cared for
no one, cared for naught. ' But the roughest have a tender,
human spot in them; he cared for the dead; and he could not
help shedding a tear over the words “son” and “mother,” for
they had come to him so inspired by a mother’s love and de
votion, that they carried him back to his own mother, his boy
hood, his home, his early hope of heaven.' He sat with un
covered feet, looking through his tears at the socks before him.
turning them, admiring them.

“They look like my mother’s knitting,” he said at last.
“I didn’t know you ever had a mother; you don’t seem
like it,” exclaimed a comrade still rougher than himself.
“None o’ that,” replied the veteran, “none o’ that jok
ing with me. I had a mother like an angel, and it’s for
her sake I.never see a woman wronged, as you well know I
The rude listeners were hushed, for there was strength and
sacredness in the old soldier’s utterance, and he still looked at
“John Randalls socks,” and said again they were just like his
mother’s knitting; and read the note again; and it might have
been long before he could have had the .heart to put the socks
to common use, had not the drum sounded and hurried him to
the review.
A pair of “John Randall’s socks” worked their way into a
Kentucky regiment at the west. There another rough man
got possession of them, and found the note within them, and
read it aloud to the silent group around him. In that group
was a lone youth who had come a stranger into the regiment,
and who never spoke of his home or friends, though one could
easily have told that his birthplace was in the eastern states.
No one listened to the note so intently as: he, and it was strange
to see how his color came and went as he listened. Then the
tears rolled fast down his cheeks.
“Grive me the letter,” he said; “it is from my mother. The
letter and the socks are mine.”
“Yours! is your name John Randall?”
A hearty laugh.

“Randall! Yon. can’t come that game so easy, Boy
“Boy George,” as the youth was familiarly called, colored
deeper than before,, but persisted, “My real .name is John
Randall, and the letter and socks are mine.”
“ Yours when you get ’em, and not much before,” answered
the man who had them. “If you’ve changed your name once,
you may change it a dozen times, but that wont give you my
“Boy George” said no more about the socks, but.again
asked for and received the letter.
He sought a quiet place and read .it, and read it again.
“My dearest son, dear beyond all expression, if you are still
living, write to me and tell me so ; if you love me still, be a
good boy, and try to meet me in heaven.”
This was all; but it was enough for the heart of that undu-
tifnl and suffering son. His mother lived ; he had thought her
dead. And she loved him the same as ever, notwithstand
ing his long absence, his follies, and his sins. What a mother
she was! What a heart she had to seek for him so, to.try to
minister unto him, even wlien she knew not where he was!
How came she to send socks for. him away out into that west
ern regiment?
John Randall—for “Boy George” was indeed he—kissed
his mother’s letter, and folding it carefully in his bosom,
his first letter since he had been in the war, the only treasure
he now had. Others had.had their letters and tokens, and his
heart had melted to see their joy in them. Alas, he had though t
there was no one to send him aught, no to remember or

care for him. He had left a mother when lie went to the war,
but he had heard that she was dead, and he feared that lie had
broken her heart Thank God that in .his mercy this bitter
ness was spared from his cup. His mother still lived, still
loved him as of old. He would write to her—would tell her
all, all his sins, all his sorrow—would ask her forgiveness, her
blessing. He took the letter from his bosom and read it again,
then lifted up his heart to God, the first time for long years.
He prayed that God would spare his life—would spare his
mother’s life, that they might meet again. He sought the sol
dier to whom had fallen his mother’s socks, offering his own
and money in exchange for them.,
, “Then it was your mother that knit them, was it?” ques
tioned the rough soldier when he heard the strong desire of
‘ ‘ Boy George ” to obtain them. ‘‘ Well, you shall have them;
give me your duds, and take them.”
The exchange was made.
“Now tell me how it is that our ‘Boy George’ and John
Bandall are one and the same.”
The explanation was given. The wild, adventurous boy
failing to obtain his mother’s consent, had gone to the war
without it, changing his name and-enlisting in a regiment of
a distant state. He had taken care that none of his early
friends should know where he was, and he knew little of them.
He had in some way heard that his mother was dead, and he
feared that his own misconduct had caused her death, at least
had hastened it. The poor youth was wretched at the thought;
and his yearnings for home and love, his regrets and remorse,
were at times almost unendurable.

What a startle did he feel when. “John Randall” was read
from the letter in the Sanitary socks. It was so long since the
name had fallen on his ear, the name by which lie had so often
been tenderly called by loving lips. “John Randall!” who
else wore that name? i Who besides him? He crowded for
ward to hear. He heard the letter. It was his. He knew
it; he knew his mother’s expressions ; knew her love, recog
nized'her act. Her'gift was for him, her own son; and lie
claimed it. '
How precious those socks seemed to him. Every stitch 6
wrought by'his mother’s kind hand; and with every stitch a
sigh heaved, or a prayer breathed. He seemed to hear the
sighs and prayers ; he held the socks in his hand and dropped
tear after tear upon them, until his heart was so moved, so
softened, that he fell upon his knees as he had not done since
a child, and prayed, “God forgive me!”
It was broad daylight and no work to be done in the house,
when Widow Randall dropped her knitting-work just as she
was binding off the heel, never taking care to fasten her needles,
and letting her ball roll neglected on the floor. For one of her
neighbors had brought her a letter which he said “had come
from the war,” and he “mistrusted that it might,be from John,
or might tell something about him.” No wonder then that the
mother dropped her needles quickly and forgot her ball. News
from John! John alive!
She read, “Hear Mother—How shall I write you? I am
alive, but I shall never see you again, never hear you speak
my forgiveness. I am mortally wounded, and have not' long

to live. The socks with your note in them came just before
the battle. They broke me all up, and sent me to my knees
before God. Bless you, mother, that you never forgot me,
never forgot to pray for me; and it is your prayers that have
led me to pray at last. God forgive me all my sins for the
sake of Him who came and died to save sinners. How I have
mourned for you, mother! I heard you were dead, and feared
it was my unkindness that caused your death. May God and
you both forgive your repentant and dying son.”
The full fountain so long sealed is at last opened. The
eyes that have not wept for many a year weep now. Joy,
grief, which is uppermost? Which is strongest? Widow Ran
dall knows that she is childless, but she knows that her son
died repentant and prayerful. She knows too that her labor
has not been in vain in the Lord ; not in vain the bread cast
on the wide waters; not in vain her hope and patience and
prayer. Never, never is prayer in vain when prompted by
love and winged by faith. mrs. p. h. phelps.

J^acf* and |am<p
“ There ’s nothing in all this
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart;
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not—
This cannot be the sole felicity,
These cannot be man’s best and only pleasures.
Oh day thrice lovely, when at length the soldier

Returns home into life ; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
The colors are unfurled; the cavalcade
Marches; and now the buzz is hushed; and hark!
Now the soft peace-march beats. Home, brothers, home!
The caps and helmets are all garlanded
With green boughs, the last plundering of the lields.
The city gates fly open of themselves;
They need no longer the petard to tear them.
From all the towers ring out the merry peals,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
Oh happy man, Oh fortunate, to whom
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful, tender arms, with mute embracing.
§nnr wilt ftu»i| Ikrtu
We saw them go; noble men! brave, intrepid! We saw
them come up, rank after rank, prompt, steady, firm. Rank
after rank, the} r went by; no better, nobler men in all our
land. Our eyes were wet, and our hearts were swollen within
us as we bade them “G-ood cheer,” and “Grod bless you.”
They were our soldiers, our country’s; to stand for us, to fight
for us, some of them to die for us. What soldiers like them?
freemen, born freemen, freemen in every thought and purpose,
going forth in their might for freedom’s sake; unforced, un-
bought, unpledged, each man a ruler and sovereign, ruler and
sovereign in his look and bearing. No better men, no nobler.
There were our fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers, our

lovers, tli-ose whom we loved better: than life, going forth so
unselfishly to hardship, to suffering ; mayhap to imprisonment,
to maiming, to death; but we did not hold them back. “ Gfod
speed,’ J we cried, ’mid our tears and heart-breaking; the
drums beat merrily, the.banners waved triumphantly, and
they passed on, away from us, the last line beyond our straining
gaze. G-one!. gone!: Grod help us now as well as them. Gfone!
And we look whither they went, and still look, and ask,
“Will they come back? Will they come back as they went?”
Nay, never more those same strong unthinned ranks will
march with waving banners before us. A gallant company
bearing their gallant name will return for our welcome, cheer,
and blessing; but we shall miss among them—Oh, so many!
Perhaps we may know the new ranks only .by the valor and
the spirit bequeathed and descended to them from those who
have passed away.
And not one will come back as he went. Some have come
back. You have seen them, bronzed, worn, wrinkled, scar
red—handsomer, far handsomer in our eyes for such bronzing,
wrinkling, and scars. Some have come back maimed, crippled;
the light, free step for ever gone; the;strong,;agile limbs shat
tered and. torn away. Welcome, young heroes! No bold
. march can stir our hearts like that uneven step, that ungrace
ful crutch. , No shoulder-strap like that armless sleeve. Honor
to you, our crippled and maimed, our knighted ones; our legion
of honor, wearing the badge for.ever. None need tell us what
you have done; no chronicler need tell us you were brave;
you have won the meed of bravery.
Some have come back to us only, to die; to give us one

more chance to prove onr love, our devotion to them. They
came for our last assurance, our last kiss, and the long fare
well. They came to be shrouded by the tender hands of love.
Heart-breaking this ! But even so come back, our loved ones!
The light from your dying eyes kindles new fire and strength.
The clasp of your dying hand is a new baptism.
Others still come back. Yeil your faces, bow your heads,
as ye lift your hearts for strength. It is the dead who come,
the cold, still dead, borne 011 men’s shoulders. Oh, they are
not ours, they cannot be our loved ones. They were so strong,
so beautiful, so full of life; they left us in such glory; how
could they die? We cannot, Oh we cannot take that lifeless
clay in place of our warm-hearted loved ones. Yet we must,
we must, for it is all. And lift the head too; look, look ! and
let our wailing cease. See the black powder-burn on the
broad brow; the big, generous breast so bullet-torn! It is
Our dead, it is our beloved. Who else, could so have died?
Who so nobly, gloriously died, face to the foe, shrinking not,
yielding not, dying for liberty?. Bow yet again before the
dead, again veil the face, for they are martyr-dead. So let
them come, our loved ones. Bear them slowly, carefully,
reverently through the land they died for. Thejvpurify, en
noble, as they pass. Hallowed be the spots where they have
been. So let them come for burial with us. Wind the ban
ner under which they died around them, and let the muffled
drum sound through our streets as they are borne along, for
so a solemn hush will come down on men’s souls, and they will
grow better, more consecrate to duty, before these new exam
ples of self-consecration. So let them come. Let their sacred

ashes make more sacred our burial-grounds. We would sleep
our last sweet sleep beside them, we would mingle our poor
dust with theirs; we would rise with them to immortality.
And some will never come back—never in life, never in
death. The hearts that wait for them wait in vain. The
eyes that watch are dim with watching, but they will not
come. “List, list! hear you not the old music, the loved
footfall on the door-step, on the stairs?” Nay; fancy, mem
ory all. No footfall will ever make music for your ears again;
no footfall like his who will no more return. But faint not,
sink not; walk firmly, though you walk alone, and mourn not
those who come not back; or if you cannot do otherwise than
mourn, since the best are gone, the beautiful departed, the
excellent laid low, triumph as you mourn, since they fell as
they wished to fall, died as you would have them die, for
country, for government, for freedom. They sleep where
they fell; their tomb a battle-field. You may not guard their
dust, but a nation guards it. You may not shed a tear upon
their graves, but millions of. those for whom they died will
bedew them with grateful, tears. Generations yet unborn will
visit them with reverent spirit, and grow more reverent as they
recall their deeds of glory and of might. Be at peace then,
bereaved ones, even if they come not back.
Some will come back—will come back: better they had,
never gone. Better they had died, had fallen in fight, than
so come back. Far better mourn the dead whom ye may
honor, than the living who are your shame.
Others will come back with new life and strength, hard
ened for new toils, heroic for fresh conflicts with wrong; bet-

ter. worthier men than they went forth; gentler, tenderer,
more appreciative -in their homes, larger-minded, larger-
hearted; more unselfish and generous and Christlike in their
whole lives, to teach us new lessons of trust and holy courage
and self-sacrifice. w-rs. p. h phelps.
Oh, ’t is one scene of parting here ;
Love’s watchword is Farewell.
And almost starts the following tear
Ere dries the last that fell.
’T is but to feel that, one most dear
Is needful to the heart,
And straight a voice is uttering near
Imperious, Ye must part!
But happiest he whose gifted eye,
And those diviner realms descry
Where .partings cannot be;
Who, with one changeless Friend on high,
Life’s various path has trod,
And soars to meet beyond the skies
The ransomed and their G-od. townshend.
They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here.
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth cheer.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed '
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth tremble oh my days,
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays.
Oh holy hope, Oh high humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear beauteous death—the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere but in the’ dark—
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could we o’erlook that mark.
He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest, ma} r know
At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep. vaughaA

fIn* gngrl at I’ahrncpv
To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God’s meekest angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.
There ’s quiet in that angel’s glance,
There’s rest in his still countenance;
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner’s ear,
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.
Angel of patience, sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm,
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life’s smile and tear,
The throbs of wounded grief to still,
And make our own our Father’s will.
Oh thou who mournest on thy way
With longings for the close of day,
He walks with thee, that angel kind,
And gently whispers, “Be resigned;
Bear up, bear on; the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well.”

f lu» |<?aiP$tow?v
The coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the
planks were removed from the heaped-up brink, the first rat
tling clods had struck their knell, the quick shovelling was
over, and the long, broad, skilfully cut pieces of turf were
aptly joined together and trimly laid by the beating spade,
so that the newest mound in the churchyard was scarcely
distinguishable from those that were grown over by the un
disturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant spring. The burial
was soon over, and the party, with one consenting motion,
having uncovered their heads in decent reverence of the place
and occasion, were beginning to separate and about to leave
the churchyard. Here some acquaintances from distant parts
of the parish, who had not had opportunity of addressing each
other in the house that had belonged to the deceased, nor in
the course of the few hundred yards that the little procession
had to move over from his bed to his grave, were shaking
hands quietly but cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare
of each other’s families. There a small knot of neighbors
were speaking without exaggeration of the respectable char
acter which the deceased had borne, and mentioning to one
another little incidents of his life, some of them so remote as
to be known only to the gray-headed persons of the group.
While a few yards further removed from the spot.were stand
ing parties who discussed ordinary concerns altogether uncon
nected with the funeral, such as the state of the markets, the
promise of the season, or change of tenants, but still with a
sobriety of manner and voice that was insensibly produced by

the influence of the simple ceremony now closed, by tlie quiet
graves around, and the shadow of the spire a$d gray walls of
the house of G-od.
Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, with
countenances of sincere but unimpassioned grief. They were
brothers, the only sons of him who had been buried; and there
was something in their situation that naturally kept the eyes
of many directed upon them for a long time, and more in
tently than would have been the case bad there been nothing
more observable about them than the common symptoms of a
common sorrow. But these two brothers, who were now
standing at the head of their father’s grave, had for some
years been totally estranged from each other, and the only
words that had passed between them during all that time had
been uttered within a few days past, during the necessary
preparations for the old man’s funeral.
No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers,
and neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this un
natural estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their father’s
favor; selfish thoughts that will sometimes force themselves
into poor men’s hearts respecting temporal expectations; un
accommodating manners on both sides; taunting words, that
mean little when uttered, but which rankle and fester in re
membrance ; imagined opposition of interests that, duly con
sidered,, would have been found one and the same: these and
many other causes, slight when single, but strong when rising
up together in one baneful, band, had gradually but fatally
infected their hearts, till at last they who in youth had been
seldom separate and truly attached/now met at market and,

miserable to say, at churcli, with dark and averted faces,, like
different clansmen during a feud.
Surely if any thing could have softened their hearts tow
ards each other, it must have been to stand silently, side by
side, while the earth, stones, and clods were falling down.upon
their father’s coffin. And doubtless their hearts were so soft
ened. But pride, though it cannot prevent the affections of
nature from being felt, may prevent them from being shown;
and these two brothers, stood there together, determined, not
‘to-let each other know the mutual tenderness that, in spite of
them, was gushing up in their hearts, and teaching them the
unconfessed folly and wickedness, of their causeless quaiiel.
A head-stone had been prepared, and a person came for
ward to plant it. The elder brother directed him how to
place it—a plain stone, with a sand-glass, skull, and cross- ■
bones, chiselled, not rudely, and a few words inscribed. The
younger brother regarded the operation with a troubled eye,
and said, loudly enough to be heard by several of the b} r -
standers, “William, this was not kind in you; you should
have told me of this. I loved my father as well as you. could
love-him. You were the elder, and it may fie the. favorite
son; but I had a right in nature to have joined you in order
ing this head-stone, had I not?”
During these words the stone was sinking into the eaith,
and many persons who were on their way from the grave,
returned. For a while the elder brother said nothing, foi he
had a consciousness in his heart that he ought to have con
sulted his father’s son in designing this last becoming mark of
affection and respect to his memory; so the stone was: planted

in silence, and now stood erect, decently and simply, among
the other-"unostentatious memorials of the humble dead.
The inscription merely gave the name and age of the .'de
ceased, and told that the stone had been erected “ by his affec
tionate sons.’ 5 The sight of these words seemed to soften the
displeasure of the angry man, and he said, somewhat more
mildly, “Yes, we were his affectionate sons, and since my
name is on the stone, I am satisfied, brother. We have not
drawn together kindly of late years, and perhaps never may ;
but I acknowledge and respect your worth; and here, before
our own friends, and before the friends of our father, with my
foot above his head, I express my willingness to be on better
and other terms with you, and if we cannot command love in
our hearts, let us at least, brother, bar out all unkindness.”
The minister who had attended the funeral, and had some
thing entrusted to him to say publicly before he left the-
churchyard, now came forward, and asked the elder brother
why he spoke not regarding this matter. He saw that there
was something of a cold and sullen pride rising up in his
heart; for not easily may any man hojie to dismiss from the
chamber of his heart' even the vilest guest, if once cherished
there. With a solemn and almost severe air he looked upon
the relenting man, and then changing his countenance into
serenity, said gently,
‘ c Behold how good a thing it is,
And how becoming well,
Together such as brethren are
In unity to dwell.”
The time,’the place, and this beautiful expression of a

natural sentiment, quite. overcame: a heart in which many
kind, if not warm affections dwelt; and the man thus appealed
to bowed down his head and wept. “G-ive me your hand,
brother;” and it was given, while a murmur of satisfaction
arose from all present, and all hearts felt kindlier and more
humanely towards each other.
As the brothers stood fervently but composedly grasping
each other’s hands in the little. hollow that lay between the
grave of their mother, long since dead, and of their father,
whose shroud was haply not yet'still from the fall of dust to
dust, the minister stood beside them with' a- pleasant counte
nance, and said, “I must fulfil the promise'I made to your
father on his death-bed. I must read to you a few words
which his hand wrote at an hour when his tongue denied its
office. I must not say that you did your duty to your old
father; for did he not often beseech you,-apart from one an
other, to be reconciled, for your own sakes as Christians, for
his sake, and for the sake of the mother who bore you, and,
Stephen, who died that you might be born? When the palsy
struck him for the last time, you were both absent; nor was
it your fault that you were not beside the old man when he
died. As long as sense continued with him here did he.think
of you two, and of you two alone. Tears were in his eyes ; I
saw them there; and on his cheek too, when no breath came
from his lips. But of this no more. He died with this paper
in his hand, and he. made me know that I was to read it to
you over his grave. I now obey him.
“My sons, if you will let my bones lie quiet in the grave,
near the dust of your mother, depart not from my burial till,

in the name of God and Christ, you promise to love one an
other as you used to do. . Dear boys, receive my blessing.”
Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that
needed not to be hidden ; and when the brothers had released
each other from a long and sobbing embrace, many went up
to them, and in a single word or two expressed their joy at
this perfect reconcilement. The brothers themselves walked
away from the churchyard arm in arm with the minister to
the manse. On the. following Sabbath they were seen sitting
with their families in the same, pew, and it was observed that
they read together off the same Bible when the minister gave
cut the text, and that they sang together, taking hold of the
same psalm-book. The same psalm was sung—given out at
their own request—of which one verse had been repeated at
their father’s grave; a larger sum than usual was on that
Sabbath found in the plate for the poor, for Love and Charity
are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and the
troubles of this life, the hearts of the brothers were as one,
and in nothing were they divided. wilson.
gwn# mrt $nfm
There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night:
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores

The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, \
Views-not a realm so beautiful, and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul, remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For ill this land of heaven’s peculiar grace,
Tlie heritage of nature’s noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest—
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest:
Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry, and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. ,
Here woman reigns: the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life.
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land—that spot of earth be found ;
Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
Oh thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.
gaxiws fyr L Famihj Iracr,
1. Remember that your will is likely to be crossed every
day, and prepare for it. .
2. Recollect that every one in the house lias an evil na-

ture, as well as yourself; and do not expect unmixed good
from them.
3. Learn the different temper of each member of the family.
4. Look upon each as one for whom Christ died.
5. When any good happens to any one, rejoice at it.
6. When inclined to angry words or retorts, lift up the
heart in prayer.
7. If from sickness, pain, or disappointment, you feel irri
table, keep a strict watch over yourself.
8. Observe when others are so suffering, and act the part
of kindness and sympathy towards them.
9. Watch for little opportunities of pleasing, and put little
annoyances out of the way.
10. Take a cheerful view of every thing, and encourage
11. Speak kindly to servants, and praise them when you
12. In all little pleasures put your own indulgence last.
13. Try the “soft answer” which “turneth away wrath.”
14. When pained by some unkind word or act, ask your
self, “Have I not often done the same and been forgiven?”
15. In conversation; bring others forward rather than
16. Be very gentle with the young, and respect their claims.
17. Do not judge another harshly, but attribute a good
motive if possible. '
18. Try always to bring down heaven into the family, and
the family up into heaven at last.

Matter's gaturdag Jfighb
The cheerful supper done, with serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
The big hall-Bible, once his father’s pride;
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care ;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says, with solemn air

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps “Dundee’s” wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive “Martyrs,” worthy of the name;
Or noble “Elgin” beats the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
No unison have they with our Creator’s praise.
. The priest-like father reads the sacred page;
How Abram was the friend of G-od 011 high ;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of heaven’s avenging ire;
Or Job’s pathetic plaint and wailing cry ;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tuned the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme;
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ;
How his first followers and servants sped,
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he an exile lone to Patmos led
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Babylon’s doom pronounced by Heaven’s

Then kneeling down, to heaven’s eternal King
The saint, the father, and. the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triuni pliant wing,”
That thus they all shall meet in future days;
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator’s praise—
In such society, yet still more dear— :
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display , to congregations: wide
Devotion’s every grace except the heart!
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul;
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent pair their secret homage pay, -
And proffer up to heaven the warm request,
That He, who stills the raven’s clamorous nest,
And decks the'lily-fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.

Tnt<| JUorolujTv
I might dwell on the beautiful and picturesque of family
religion; I might cany you back to the time when the glory
of domestic piety had her habitation in our land, when vil
lages and towns presented a look of Sabbath quietness at the
hour , of morning prayer, and when night succeeding night
repeated the praises of God from the lonely upland cottage to
the hamlet on the plain. I might plant you amidst the wor
shipping household, and invite yon to listen to the cordial
music of their psalm and the pathos and fervor of their prayer.
But one thing hinders me. I know that all that is beautiful
and picturesque in domestic devotion has not only been wit
nessed but described, by those whom its loveliness could never
win to an imitation. It is one thing for a heart full of sensi
bility to be touched by contemplating the beauty and the joys
of true devotion, and quite another thing for a renewed heart
to feel these joys. Hundreds have been melted by the match
less poem in which the bard of Scotland describes the worship
of a cottage patriarch; but the Cotter's Saturday Night never
taught any man to pray. It is told of Sir Walter Scott, that
sometimes in an evening he took his guests to an arbor on his
lawn, and let them hear the distant music of a sacred tune.
It came from the cottage of one of his dependents, and fell
touchingly on the ear of the great minstrel himself; but it
only touched the ear. He and his visitors went back to the
drawing-room at Abbotsford; but it was not to raise, witli
their better skill, an evening hymn of thanksgiving to the
God of all their mercies. The distant cadence of a covenant-

ing melody was somewhat romantic, but nearer at hand it
would have blended ill with the dance and the tabret. They
all agreed that the voice of psalms from a cottage was pictur
esque; but that in the mansion, the harp and the viol'would'
be more appropriate. If higher considerations have no weight,
I am sure that a little picture-work'will not prevail upon you.
Fathers and brethren, you who are the heads of happy
families to-day; all that I ask is, that you would make them
happier still: happy not only in your love, but in the love of
God the Saviour; happy for time and through eternity. The
happiest family will not be always so. The most smiling cir
cle will be in tears some day. * All that I ask is, that you
would secure for yourselves and your children a friend in that
blessed Redeemer who will wipe all tears from all faces.
Your families may soon be scattered, and familiar voices may
cease to echo within your walls. They may go each to his
own, and some of them may go far away. Oh see to it that
the God of Bethel goes with them, that they set up an altar
even oil a distant shore, and sing the Lord’s song in that for
eign land. They may be taken from this earth altogether,
and leave you alone. Oh see to it that as one after another
goes, it maybe to their Father’s house above, and to sing
with heavenly voices and to a heavenly harp the song which
they first learned from you, and with you often sung together
here—the song of Moses and the Lamb. And if you be taken,
and some of them be left, see to it that you leave them the
thankful assurance that you are gone to their Father and your
Father, their God and your God. And in the mean while let
your united worship be so frequent and so fervent, that when

you are taken from their head, the one whose sad office it is
to supply your place as priest of that household, shall not bo
able to. select a chapter or a psalm with which your living
image and voice are not associated, and in which you, though
dead, are not yet speaking to them. And thus, my hearth
wish for you all is, HAMILTON.
‘ ‘ Wlien soon or late you reacli tliat coast,
O’er life’s rough ocean driven,
May you rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven.”
gnm’t |oiuj of framing
Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known:
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer.
Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless:
And since he bids me seek his face,
Believe his word and trust his grace,
I ’11 cast on him my every care.
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer.

Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
May I thy consolation share,
Till from mount Pisgah’s lofty height
I view my home and take my flight:
This robe of flesh I ; 11 drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize,
And shout, while passing through the air,
Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer.
Man’s plea to man is, that he never more
Will beg, and that he never begged before;
Man’s plea to God is, that he did obtain
A former suit, and therefore begs again.
How. good a God we serve, that, when we sue,
Makes his old gifts the examples of his new. QU arles.
J fttMq Fa wilt! la
An eminent Christian, remarkable for her confidence in
God, and for attention to the spiritual welfare of her house
hold, in a letter to her husband a little before she died, could
say, “I rejoice in hope that we shall meet, an unbroken family,
before the throne of God.” What a delightful thought—a
whole family in heaven!
What a glorious sight it will be to behold all Christ's re
deemed family in heaven. Now they are separated. Part of
them are in.heaven, and the other part are yet on earth; but

there is a clay coming, when they will be gathered out of all
nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, and make a
great multitude which no man can number. Oh, blissful morn
ing, when my.eyes shall gaze on this redeemed famity.
How happy will you be to meet every member of your own
family in heaven—not one wanting. Father and mother, sons
and daughters, brothers and sisters/servants and apprentices;—
all there: all who surrounded the family table; all who knelt
together around the family altar, however separated by dis
tance or time, yet meeting in heaven at last. Is there any as
sured prospect that this will be the case with you? Have you
ever, any doubts respecting it? 0 seek to have these doubts
removed. Have you any hopes respecting it? 0 see that
your hopes are well founded. Are you unconcerned about it?
Ah, that is dreadful. Heaven is not to be trifled with. Hell
is not to be trifled with. Souls are. not to be trifled with.
Remember, the day is coming, it is nigh at hand, when you
will see and feel that these things deserved your chief atten
What a cheering circumstance it is when one in a family,
by repenting of sin, and believing in the Lord Jesus Christ,
has chosen heaven for his portion. Look at that man. Mark
him well. Set it down as a certainty, that he will not go to
heaven alone. He cannot be satisfied to walk solitarily in the
wny to Zion. He must have companions, and he will use every
means, that, through G-ocl’s blessing, he may bring others to
Christ. We anticipate great things from such a man; and well
we may, for G-ocl says to every new convert, “I will bless
thee, and thou shalt be a blessing/' 7 From the day of his con-

version lie begins to pray, and “the effectual fervent prayer
of a righteous man availeth much.” He also begins to “shine.”
and he “givetli light unto all that are in the house.” To such
a friend I would say, 0 watch for their souls. Look up to
God for divine guidance, that you may act wisely in your
station. Never be discouraged. Let the hope, of bringing a
whole family to heaven animate, quicken you. In the Lord
Jehovah is everlasting strength; and when yon are leaning
simply on him, he will make you almost forget your own
weakness, by the assurance that his arm is almighty.
When a part of a family is already in heaven, what a pow
erful influence should this fact.have on survivors. Oh, it is a
solemn and instructive event when one member of a family is
taken to glory. The thought of those who are there ought to
loosen our hearts from earth, and to raise our souls to heaven.
Shall you be found in this happy company? Soon, soon you
will leave this earthly state, and whither will you go? Will
you join your family in heaven? Have you made any prepa
ration for it? “Except a man be born again,” he cannot enter
that kingdom. You must be born again. Are you born again?
What is there in you which indicates your heavenly birth?
Recollect that the removal of one member of a family to a
better world has sometimes been overruled by divine Provi
dence for leading all the other members to consider their ways,
to repent of their sins, to seek mercy through faith in the Lord
Jesus Christ, and to walk humbly with God, until a voice from
above said unto them, “Come up hither.”
How alarming it is when one in a family gives evidence
that he is not preparing for heaven. 0 how can we bear to

think of a whole family in heaven bat one. "Whom should we
select to be that miserable absentee? Whose child should wo
pitch upon? Whose brother should we mark as the victim?
Does not our blood run cold—do not our hearts shudder at the
thought? Are we not all ready to exclaim, “Let not this
misery fall on one of mine!” Now, parents, now is the time.
Is there one in your family not preparing for heaven? What
ought to be done in his case? Shall you let him alone? 0 no.
Let your tears flow. Let your prayers ascend. Let your
hearts melt. Let your language pierce his soul. 0 follow him.
Determine never to give him up until you have reclaimed the
prodigal—until you have snatched the firebrand from the flame ;
then you may go on your way, rejoicing in hope that all your
family Will meet in heaven.
How ought the members of this heavenly family to live to
gether while they are here upon earth? They are redeemed by
the same blood, justified by the same grace, sanctified by the
same Spirit, brethren of the same family, heirs of the same
inheritance. They tell us that they expect to meet in glory,
and to join in the same song of praise “unto Him that loved
us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood; to him be
glory for ever. Amen.”' This is delightful. How then
ought they to live together here? Like brethren, certainly.
Like the children of God. Like the heirs of heaven. And
do they act thus? How do you act? On what terms arc you
living with your brethren? Remember, you arc not lit for
heaven if you cannot, if you do not love your brother. 01), if
ever you expect to have the divine blessing resting upon your
own souls—if ever you expect to see many turning to the Lord

from among your neighbors, you must first see to it that you
love one another.
How dreadful will it be to see a whole family in hell. And
is there not reason to fear, that many whole families are al
ready there?' Awful thought! See them shut up in endless
despair. Oh, see them in the everlasting fire, prepared for the
devil and his angels. And are there not whole families, at this
moment 011 their way thither, to whom not one word of solemn,
friendly, godly counsel has been given, who have never once
been warned to flee from the wrath to come?
Oh, brethren, ye that love the Lord indeed, is there nothing
for you to do among the multitudes which are ready to perish?
Surely if you had compassion like, unto the Son of .God, here
is work enough for all. And where ought you to begin? 0,
begin at home. Search your own heart. Then search into
the state of your own family. Next; call on your neighbors.
Press’ home the invitations of the gospel. Say, “Behold ,the
Lamb of God, which'taketh away the sin of the world.” • Be
seech them, in Christ’s stead, to be reconciled unto God ; and
when you come to die, you will not regret that you'labored
hard to bring a whole family to heaven—that you labored hard
to save a whole family from hell. knill.
Eli-rist at fin? HolrrrmanT Joey
“Once I was strong, and loved my work; but now
I am a useless hull; ’tis time I sunk;
I am in all men’s way; I trouble them;
I am a trouble to myself: but yet

I feel for mariners on stormy nights,
And feel for wives that watch, ashore. Aye, aye,
If I had learning, I would pray the Lord
To bring them in ; but I hu 110 scholar, 110;
Book-learning is a world too hard for me;
But I make bold to say, 0 Lord,-good Lord,
I am a broken down poor man, a fool
To speak to thee; but in the book 7 tis writ,
As I hear say from others that can read,
How, when thou earnest, thou didst love the sea,
And live with fisher folk, whereby 7 t is said
Thou knowest all the peril they go through,
And all their trouble. As for me, good Lord,
I have no boat; I am too old, too old;
My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife;
My little lasses died so long ago
That mostly I forget what they were like.
Thou knowest, Lord, they were such little ones.
I knew they went to thee, but I forget
Their faces, though I missed them sore.
I was a strong man—I have drawn good food
And made good money out of thy great sea—
But yet I cried for them at nights; and now,
Although I be so old, I miss ni3 r lads.
And there be many folk this stormy night
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord,
Comfort them ! Save their honest boys, their pride,

And let them hear, next ebb, the blessedest
Best sound—the boat-keel grating on the sand.
But, Lord, I am a trouble; and I sit
And I am lonesome, and the nights are few
That any think to come and draw a chair
And sit in my poor place and talk a while.
Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind
Knocks at my door. Oh long and loud it knocks.
The only thing God made that has a mind
To enter in.”
Yea, thus the old man spoke,
These were the last words of his aged mouth.
But One did knock: One came to sup with him,
That humble, weak old man; knocked at his door
In the rough pauses of the laboring -wind.
What He said
In that poor place where He did talk a while,
I cannot tell; but this I am assured,
That when the neighbors came the morrow morn,
What time the wind had bated, and the sun
Shone on the old man’s floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, “He looks
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to him.” miss .tean ingelow.

Now stir the lire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
’T is pleasant through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep out at the world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its, concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations j I behold
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;

The manners, customs, policj", of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return—a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the'finger of a clock,
Puns the great circuit, and is home. cowpeb.
garmag Halst* in I’aratlisy
These are thj r glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! Thine this universal frame
Thus wondrous fair. Thyself how wondrous then,
Unspeakable, who sit’st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven.
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
'While'day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall’st.
Moon, that now meet’st the orient sun, now flyest
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance not without song, resound
His praise,' who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Yary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world’s great Author rise;
Whether to deck.with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.

HOME scenes:
Join voices, all ye living souls: ye birds.
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in w r aters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good ; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
It happened on a solemn eventide,
Soon after He that was our Surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,
The scene of all those sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as-they went
In mu sings worthy of the great event:
They spoke of him they loved, of him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife;
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore,
The further traced, enriched them still the more;
They thought him, and they justly thought him one
Sent to do more than he appeared t’ have done;

T ? exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wondered he should die.
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,
A stranger joined them, courteous as a friend,
And asked them with a kind engaging air
What their affliction was, and begged a share.
Informed, he gathered up the broken thread,
And truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explained, illustrated, and searched so well
The tender theme on which they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, “The night,” they said, “is near,
We must not now be parted—sojourn here.”
The new acquaintance goon became a guest,
And made so welcome at their simple feast,
He blessed the bread, but vanished at the word,
And left them both exclaiming, ‘ ‘ ’T was the Lord!
Did not our hearts feel all he deigned to say;
Did they not burn within us by the way?”
Now theirs was converse such as it behooves
Man to maintain, and such as Glod approves:
Their views indeed were indistinct and dim,
But yet successful, being aimed at him.
Christ and his character their only scope,
Their object and their subject and their hope,
They felt what it became them much to feel,
And wanting him to loose the sacred seal,
Found him as prompt as their desire was true
To spread the new-born glories in their view.

“What, always dreaming over heavenly tilings,
Like angel-keads in stone with pigeon-wings ?
Canting and whining out all day the word,
And half the night ? fanatic and absurd!
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers,
Who makes 110 bustle with his soul’s affairs,
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,
And chase the splenetic dull hours away;
Content on earth in earthly things to shine,
Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine,
Leaves saints t’ enjoy those altitudes they teach,
And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach.”
Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame,
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name.
Is sparkling wit the world’s exclusive right ?
The fixed fee-simple of the vain and light?
Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour,
That come to waft us out of sorrow’s power,
Obscure' or quench a faculty that finds
Its happiest soil in the serenest minds ?
Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,
And brings the. trifler under, rigorous sw T ay,
But gives it usefulness unknown before,
And purifying, makes it shine the more.
A Christian’s wit is inoffensive light,
A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight;
Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth,
’Tis always active on the side of truth;

Temperance and peace insure its healthful state,
And make it brightest at its latest date.
Oh, I have seen—nor hope perhaps in vain,
Ere life go down, to see such sights again—
A veteran warrior in the Christian field,
Who never saw the sword he could not wield;
Grave without dulness, learned without pride,
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed;
A man that would have foiled at their own play
A dozen would-bes of the modern day;
Who, when occasion justified its use,
ITad wit as bright as ready to produce;
Could fetch from records of an earlier age,
Or from philosophy’s enlightened page,
His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains it was a privilege to hear;
Yet above all his luxury supreme,
And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,
His happy eloquence seemed there,at home,
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,
But to treat justly what he loved so well. cowpeb.
g Jam In
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he has gone
to dwell.

To us, ■ for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what look he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow;
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not
But I know—for God hath told me this—that he is now at
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour’s loving breast.
I know his'spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, '
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's diviu-
est things.
I know that we shall meet our babe—his mother dear and I—
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate’er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter’s wiles their souls from bliss may
But if our own poor faith fail not,,7ie must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still
must be,

When we muse on that world’s perfect bliss, and this world’s
misery; ■ •
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief
and pain;
Oh, we’d rather lose our other two than have him here again.
Over the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who’ve crossed to the other side;
The gleam of their snnny robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There’s one with ringlets of snnny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven’s own hue;
He crossed in the twilight grey and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see—
Over the river, over the river
My brother stands waiting to. welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls moved in the gentle gale—
Darling Minnie, I see her yet.
She crossed 011 her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver strands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;

We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be—
Over the river, the mystic’river,
My childhood’s idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the sunny sail.
And lo, they have passed from the yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye;
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day,
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o’er life’s stormy sea;
Yet somewhere I know on the unseen shore
They watch and beckon and wait for me.
And I sit and think when the sunset gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman’s oar.
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I.shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

glityiwial |omP5,
Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplished bliss; which who can see
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy ?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,
And clothe all climes with beauty. The reproach
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field
Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean
Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
Exults to see its thistly curse repealed—
The various seasons woven into one,
And that one season an eternal spring.
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,
For there is none to covet, all are full.
The lion and the libbard and the bear
Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon
Together, or all gambol in the shade
Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.
Antipathies are none. No foe to man
Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees
And smiles to see her infant’s playful hand
Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm,
To stroke his azure neck, or to receive
The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.
All creatures worship man, and all mankind
One Lord, one Father. Error has no place:
That creeping pestilence is driven away:

The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart
No passion touches a discordant string,
But all is harmony and love. Disease
Is not: the pure and uncontaminate blood
Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.
One song employs all nations; and all cry,
“Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us.”
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks
Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops
From distant mountains catch the flying joy
Till, nation after nation taught the strain,
Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round, cowpek.