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of true sanctifying grace at all: every drop of water is water, and every grain of gold is gold; every measure of grace is precious. But, who is there, that, when he is dry, would take up with one drop of liquor, when he might have more? or, if covetously minded, would sit down content with one dram of gold? in such cases, a little doth but draw on a desire of more. It is strange to see, that, in all other commodities, we desire a fullness we would have full dishes, full cups, full coffers, full barns, a fullness of all things; save the best of all, which is, the Holy Ghost. Any measure of spiritual grace contents us; so as we are ready to say with Esau, I have enough, my brother. There is a sinful kind of contention, wherewith many fashionable Christians suffer themselves to be beguiled, to the utter undoing of their souls: for, hereupon they grow utterly careless to get, what they think they have already: who cares to eat, that is full crammed? And, by this means, they live and die graceless: for, had they ever tasted how sweet the Lord is in the graces of his Holy Spirit, they could never think they had enough; and, while they do think so, they are utterly incapable of either having or desiring more. As there is a sinful, so there is a holy covetousness; which, the more it hath, the more it affects. Lord, make me thus covetous, and I cannot choose but be rich.-Bishop Hall.

THE GOSPEL OAK.

(See the Vignette.)

THE old tree which forms the subject of our Vignette, besides its extremely picturesque character, derives some interest from the name locally bestowed uyon it. It is called the "Gospel Oak" from a tradition that it formed a natural pulpit for some earnest expounder of the truth, in days when "the word of the Lord" was emphatically "precious," in consequence of prevalent persecutions, or the limited knowledge which obtained relative to the glad tidings of salvalion. Similar names are not unfrequent; but truth compels us to believe that in most cases they have given birth to the traditions associated with them simply as a means of explaining why such titles were bestowed.

POETRY.

ANSWERS TO ENIGMA.
(Page 528.)

Although the bowers of Eden ne'er
Gave birth to aught but things most fair,
Still, those who dwelt in Eden's bowers,
And nursed and tended Eden's flowers,—
The Holy page of Scripture saith
Admitted Sin, who brought forth Death.

This first and last of human foes
Nature appals 'mid all her woes,—
But He who this frail nature wore,
And all its sin and sorrow bore,
In yielding his last mortal breath,
For ever took the sting from Death.

Still 'tis a curse,-and what we fear,
For life to those who love, is dear,
But he who looks beyond the skies,
Who meets his Saviour when he dies,
Can trustingly resign his breath,
And calmly meet the conqueror Death.

'Tis truly said in Eden's ground

Your dreaded presence was not found,
For on that lovely spot of earth

No gloomy being had its birth;
Nor canst thou reach the lofty sky,
Thy pinions may not soar so high,
For thou art there a banished foe-
No griefs those happy spirits know;
But sin pronounced the stern decree
That high and low must bow to thee.
Hence those who tread the battle field
And make the proudest warrior yield,

M. W.

When called to meet thy cold embrace,
Shrink back with horror from thy face;
But those who feel their sins forgiven,
And pant to reach their home in heaven,
View thy approach without alloy,—
The harbinger of endless joy,-
Gladly resign their parting breath,

And meet thee with a smile, 0! Death.

I could not dwell in Paradise,
With my cold withering breath,
While all was sinless, bright and fair,
Here was no place for Death.

But when, to seek in this dark world
Their home, our race were driven,
And doomed to toil, and daily care,
And distant glimpse of Heaven;

And infant child, and hoary age,

With pain must yield their breath,
And nought avert the dreaded hour,
Here was the throne of Death.

But yet to some it has been given,
Cheered by a Saviour nigh,

To view in Death a welcome friend
To bear their souls on high.

BIRTHDAY THOUGHTS.

My Birth-day! how that gladsome sound
Once made my childish heart rejoice,
When in my own dear room I found
Affection's gifts, my Birth-day toys.
The sunlight of those by-gone hours

Comes freshly o'er my memory now,
Though withered are the early flowers

A father wreathed around my brow.

ELIZA.

A. E. G.

Dear mother! thou art left me still,
To cheer thy lone one on her way,
And my glad eyes with pleasure fill,
To greet thee on my natal day.

With Mary, at my Saviour's feet,

Waiting to sit, from year to year,
'Tis thus His wisdom thinks it meet
That I should only serve Him here.

Within Thy vineyard, helpless still,
My work is but to wait and pray,
Father! I bow me to Thy will.
Make it my pleasure to obey.

Wearisome days and nights of pain,
If they but drive me nearer Thee,
Will bring rich blessings in their train,
And I shall yet the "needs be" see.

Emerging from the wintry gloom,

E'en now I mark the length'ning day, I hear a voice from nature's tomb,

Which 'midst Hope's twilight seems to say,—

"Grief may endure throughout the night,
Starless and dark with needless fears,
But joy shall come with morning light,
And God shall wipe away thy tears."

My Birth-day! Lord to thee I raise
My feeble voice, a thankful strain
Of grateful joy and fervent praise,
That I behold it once again.

"WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY."

Work for the world as one that hopes

Yet will not rest therein,

For all its upward strains and steps
Against its want and sin.

Work as thou can'st in field or fane,
By hearth or senate hall,

With hand or thought with speech or pen
The world hath need of all-

For woe is wide, and wrong is old,
And sin hath many a help and hold.

Work for thy soul, and bring not down
To earth its strength and trust :
Heir of an everlasting crown,

Why shouldst thou serve the dust?
Perchance the burdens and the snares
Are many in thy way,

But watch the wheat, weed out the tares,
And walk above the clay-
However low thy lot may be

Life hath this glorious task for thee.

Work bravely, with a heart made rich
In hope, though helps be few,
Its maker only knows how much
The willing hand can do.

The hindrance may be praise and gain,
It may be scorn and loss,
But christian is thy faith in vain?
The call was from the cross,

That summoned thee to seek and save,
Like Him the conqueror of the grave.

"Work cheerfully! the thorns and briars
Through which thy journey lies,
Should they have power upon thy peace,
A traveller to the skies!

A worker with the tried and true
On every shore that trod,

With prophets, saints, and angels too,
A worker e'en with God!

Was it not told the☺ in his sight

How precious seemed the widow's mite?

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