Many a woe which had riven the heart-many a cup whose bitterness seemed to designate it as poison, was there verifying the language of the poet :

"E'en crosses from his Sovereign hand, are blessings in disguise." Another catalogue was there-it was the enumeration of "Transgression." My hand trembles as I remember them! What an immense variety of classes! "Indifference-thoughtlessness-formality-ingratitude-unbelief-sins against the world -against the church-against the Father-against the Saviour -against the Sanctifier-stood at the head of their crowded battalions, as if for the purpose of driving me to despair. Not one sin was forgotten there-neglected Sabbaths-misimproved tíme encouraged temptations "-there they stood, with no excuse, no extenuation. There was one very long class I remember well, "Idle words ;" and the passage flashed like lightning across my mind-" For every idle word that men speak, they shall give an account in the day of judgment." My supernatural visitant here addressed me. "Dost thou observe how small a proportion thy sins of commission bear to those of omission ?" As he spoke, he pointed me to instances in the page like the following: "I was thirsty and thou gavest me no drink :" "I was hungry and thou gavest me no meat :"

"I was sick and thou did'st not visit me." I was conscious stricken. In another part of the record I read the titles "Duties Performed." Alas! how small was their number! Humble as I had been accustomed to think the estimate of my good works, I was greatly disappointed to perceive that many performances on which I had looked with pride, were omitted," because, "my visitor informed me," the motive was impure." It was, however, with feelings of the most affecting gratification I read beneath this record, small as it was, the following passage,-" "Whosoever shall give a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, he shall in no wise lose his reward." Whilst I gazed on many other similar records, such was the

intense feeling which seemed to be awakened within me, that my brain grew dizzy, and my eye became dim. I was awakened from this state, by the touch of my supernatural instructor, who pointed me to the volume in which I had read my own terrible history, now closed, and bearing a seal, on which, with a sickening heart, I read the inscription: "Reserved until the day of judgment." "And now," said the angel, "my commission is completed. "Thou hast been permitted what was never granted to man before. What thinkest thou of the record? Dost thou not justly tremble? How many a line is here, which, "dying thou couldst wish to blot?" I see thee already shuddering at the thought of the disclosure of this volume at the day of judgment, when an assembled world shall listen to its. contents. But if such be the record of one year, what must be the guilt of thy whole life? Seek, then, an interest in the blood of Christ, justified by which, thou shalt indeed hear, but not to condemnation. Pray, that when the other books are opened, thy name may be found in the book of life. And see, the volume prepared for the history of another year yet its page is unsullied. Time is before thee-seek to improve it; privileges are before thee-may they prove the gate of heaven! Judgment is before thee-prepare to meet thy God." He turned to depart, and as I seemed to hear the rustling which announced his flight, I awoke. Was it all a dream?

"Whatever passes as a cloud between,

The mental eye of Faith and things unseen,
Causing that brighter world to disappear,
Or seem less lovely or its hope less dear,
This is our world, our idol, though it bear,
Affections impress, or devotion's air."

A PROVERB has been called the wisdom of many, and the wit of one.

Co the Memory of Reginald Beber.

How well I remember the day I first met thee!

'Twas in scenes long forsaken, in moments long fled!
Then little thought I that a world would regret thee,
And Europe and Asia both mourn for thee, dead.
Ah, little thought I, in those gay sunny hours,

That round thy young head e'en the laurel would twine, Still less that a wreath of the Amaranth flowers,

Inwreathed with the Palm, would, Oh Heber, be thine!

We met in the world-and the light that shone round thee,
Was the dangerous blaze of Wit's meteor ray;
But e'en then, though unseen, Mercy's Angel had found thee,
And the bright star of Bethlehem was marking thy way,
To the banks of the Isis, a far fitter dwelling,

Thy footsteps returned, and thy hand to its lyre,
While thy heart with the Bard's bright ambition was swelling,
But holy the theme was that wakened its fire.

Again in the world and with worldlings I met thee

And then thou wert welcomed as "Palestine's Bard :" They had scorned at the task which the Saviour had set thee, The Christian's rough labour, the martyr's reward, Yet the one was thy calling-thy portion the other— The far shores of India received thee and blest, And its lowliest of teachers dared greet as a brother, And love thee, though clad in the prelate's proud vest.

In the meek, humble christian forgot was thy greatnessThe follower they saw of a crucified Lord :

For thy zeal showed His spirit, thy accents His sweetness, And the heart of the heathen drank deep of the word.

TO THE MEMORY OF REGINALD HEBER.

197

Bright as short was thy course, when a coal from the altar,
Had touched thy blest lip, and the voice bade thee "Go,"
Thy haste could not pause, and thy step could not falter,
"Till o'er India's wide sea had advanced thy swift prow.

In vain her fierce sun with its cloudless effulgence,
Seemed arrows of death to shoot forth with each ray,
Thy faith gave to fear and fatigue no indulgence,
But on to the goal urged thy perilous way.

And, martyr of zeal, thou e'en here wert rewarded,
When the dark sons of India came round thee in throngs,
While thee as a father they fondly regarded,

Who taught them and blessed in their own native tongues.
When thou heard'st them their faith's awful errors disclaiming,
Profess the pure creed which the Saviour had given,
Those moments thy mission's blest triumph proclaiming,
Gave joy, which to thee, seemed a foretaste of Heaven!
Still on cried the voice, and surrounding the altar,

Trichonopoly's sons hailed thy labours of love,
Ah me! with no fear did thine accents then falter?
No secret forebodings thy conscious heart move?

Thou had'st ceased, having taught them what rock to rely on:
And had doffed the proud robes which to prelates belong;
But the next robe for thee was the white robe of Zion,
The next hymn thou heard'st was the seraphim's song!
Here hushed be my lay-for, a far sweeter verse

Thy requiem I'll breathe in thy numbers alone,
For the bard's votive offering to hang on thy hearse,

Should be formed of no language less sweet than thine own.

"Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee: Since God was thy refuge, thy ransom, thy guide;

He gave thee-He took thee-and He will restore thee:

And Death has no sting since the Saviour has died!"

AMELIA OPIE.

༣

Chanatopsis.

To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,-
Go forth under the open sky, and list

To nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to th' insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thy eternal resting place