do and suffer all the holy will of Godwe ourselves, body, soul, and spirit, to fulfill the will of Him who loved us and redeemed us with his precious blood of God."

"But," resumed the Druid, "is that holy life, which you say was willingly yielded up for man, extinct forever? Shall the holy perish, and the guilty live?"

"Nay," was the reply, in a tone of concentrated fervor, "that immortal life could not perish. The Son of God is risen from the dead, and dieth no more. And now," he continued, speaking cagerly, as one who has good news to tell, "he sitteth enthroned at the right hand of God, the Sun of the City above." "Have you, then, also a sacred city?" said the Jew, in a tone of surprise."

"It lieth toward the sun-rising," replied the Christian, in the words of an early martyr, "Jerusalem the heavenly, the city of the holy."

"Your golden age, your holy city, are then in the future, not in the past?" said both.

"You speak of an immortal life for each man," added the Druid; "but is there never to be a good time for man

kind?"

"It is written that the King, the Christ, will come again in glory, to judge the wicked and to raise the just," was the reply; "and that then truth and righteousness shall reign on earth; for he is holy, and just, and true, and in Him all the nations of the earth shall be blessed."

Often during the months that followed, the Hebrew and the Druid sought that lowly miner's hut. There Jew and Gentile learned together concerning Him who is the Hope of Israel and the De

sire of all nations.

The blank wall of darkness, which, to the Jew, had seemed so strangely and abruptly to close the long path of prophetic light and promise, parted and dissolved, displaying to his adoring gaze a sacrifice to whom all sacrifices pointed,

the Priest in whom all priesthood is consummated, the King of whom Hebrew kings and prophets sang, in whom all dominion centers.

To the Druid, the dim desires of his heart were at once explained and fulfilled. Sin and falsehood were discovered and brought to shame. "Life and immortality were brought to light." And on both gradually dawned, as the power and wisdom of God, not a doctrine merely, nor the ritual, but the Christ, the Son of the living God.

Thus along on the rocky shores of the Atlantic rose, in threefold harmony, the Christian hymns to Him who heareth always; the Sun whose presence is day to faith, the glory for which Israel waited, the Redeemer for whom all nations blindly groped and longed, the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world.

There, also, erelong, in that lowly hut, those strangers watched, as brothers, by the death-bed of the Smyrniate exile, now one with them in Christ. And there, on that bleak shore, they buried him, in a quiet nook, consecrated by solitude, and thenceforth by the immortal seed of "the body that shall be." Races have passed away since then, and civilizations; rituals and religious systems have grown up, run to seed, and perished; but from those early ages to this, that new song of life and hope has never been entirely silenced on our British shores.

THE SABBATH.

JAMES GRAHAME.

These lines are from a poem entitled The Sabbath," by James Grahame, a modest Scotch clergyman, who died half a century ago. A pleasant anecdote is related connected with its publication He had not affixed his name to the book, nor acquainted his family with the secret of its composition. Taking a copy home with him one day, he left it on the table. His wife began reading it, while the sensitive author walked up and down the room, at length she broke out in prais of the poem adding, “Ah, James, if you could but produce a poem like this ! The joyful acknowledgment of his being the author was then made, no doubt with the most exquisite pleasure on both sides.)

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most faint attract the ear;-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew.
The distant bleating, mid-way up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the

dale,

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased, all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on
man,

Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days, the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's
cold,

And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks

[George W. Fulcher; ed in Sudbury, England, in 1855.] COME closer, closer, dear mamma, my heart is filled with fears,

My eyes are dark,—I hear your sobs, but can not see your tears.

I feel your warm breath on my lips, that are so icy cold;

Come closer, closer, dear mamma, give me your hand to hold.

I quite forget my little hymn, "How doth the busy bee."

Which every day I used to say, when sitting on your knee.

Nor can I recollect my prayers; and, dear mamma, you know

That the great God will angry be if I forget them,

on high.

But will he love me, dear mamma, as tenderly as you?

And will my own papa, one day, come and live with me, too?

But you must first lay me to sleep where grandpapa is laid;

Is not the church-yard cold and dark, and sha'nt I feel afraid?

And will you every evening come, and say my pretty prayer

O'er poor Lucy's little grave, and sce that no one's there?

And promise me that when you die, that they your grave shall make

Next unto mine, that I may be close to you when I wake?

Nay, do not leave me, dear mamma, your watch beside me keep;

My heart feels cold; the room's all dark; now lay me down to sleep:

And should I sleep to wake no more, dear, dear, mamma, good-by ;

Poor nurse is kind; but oh! do you be with me when I die!

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighboring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest 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;
And many a gambol frolicked over the ground,
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went
round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired.
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love;
The matron's glance, that would those looks
reprove;

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,

With sweet succession taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,

These were thy charms-But all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, lovliest of the lawn,

One

In 1725, the son of a poor Irish curate. No author in our language has so endeared himself as he by the artless benevolence shown in his works, and by his mellow, flowing, and softly-tintel style. Washington Irving says his writings **put us in good humor with ourselves and with the world, and in so doing they make us happier and better men.' never tires of the Vicar of Wakefield, nor of the Deserted Village. The memory of poor Oliver is endeared to all, for *e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." He was a mere child in all the business affairs of life; but his heart was as big as a mountain. Among the amusing anecdotes, illus

trating his utter disregard of himself when his sympathies for the sullering werearoused, this is told: While a student, he failed one morning to fulfill an appointment to breakfast with a companion. The latter, thereupon, went to his room, and found Goldsmith immersed to his chin in the feathers.

It seems he had, the night before, met in the streets a poor

woman, a stranger, with five small children, from the country, without food and destitute, who implored his charity. He was poor and penniless himself; but he brought her to the college gate, stripped his bed of its blankets and gave her to shelter her little ones, and took off part of his clothes for her to sell and purchas food. Finding himself shivering in the

night, he had cut open the tick and buried himself in the feathers; and, destitute of clothes, he could not leave his room.]

SWEET Auburn! lovliest 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,

drawn;

Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green;
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints the smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amid thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall:
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's
hand,

Far, far away thy children leave the land.

I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amid 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 when 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 mingled notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gibbled 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 spake the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the scunds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the blooming flush of life is fled;
All but yon widowed. solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To scek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near 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;

Unskillful he to fawn, or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learnt 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 claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bid 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

Wou.

Pleased with his guests, the good nan learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave cre 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, le prayed and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged cffspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved cach dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by tuins dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wietch 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 are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face: Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had be: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned, Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew;
Twas certain he could write and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For e en though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thundering
sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head should carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head so high, Where once the signpost caught the passing eye. Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retired; Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,

The parlor-splendors of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;

The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

day,

That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain,
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still return to weep!
The good old sire, the first prepared to go,
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovlier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a
tear,

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;

While her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.

[Nathaniel Cotton, an English poet of the last century, and friend of Cowper.]

How sweet these sacred hours of rest, Where lawless lust, and passion rude, Fair portraits of the virtuous breast, And folly never dare intrude!

Be others' choice the sparkling bowl;
And mirth, the poison of the soul;
Parents of sickness, pains, and woes:
Or midnight dance, and public shows,

A nobler joy my thoughts design;
Instructive solitude be mine:
Be mine that silent calm repast,
A cheerful conscience to the last.

UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

FATHER of all! in every age,

[Alexander Pope, boru in 1683; died in 1744.j

In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined
To know but this-that thou art good,
And that myself am blind:

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,

This, teach me more than Hell to shun,
Or warns me not to do,
That, more than Heaven pursue.