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entered into conversation, and said, "Can you read this ?”—a tract of this Society, in the Irish tongue. He put it into the hand of Peter, and at the end of four weeks the missionary met the man again. He had, as he said himself, "swallowed the whole tract!"
“Well,” said the missionary, "I will give you an Irish Bible, if you will swallow it as well.”
He said, "I'll never be beholden to a missionary for a Bible, but I'll buy it of you, if you'll sell it.”
"I have two or three; I will sell one."
"What is the price ?"
"The price I ask is, that when it shall please God to strike the light and love of it into your heart, you will teach six men like yourself to love the Bible.”
And there indeed was Peter, behind the turf-stack, teaching them to read the word of God!-Rev. D. D. Heather.
"THE EARTH IS FULL OF THY RICHES."
Lord God, what a world of treasure hast thou hid in the bowels of the earth, which no eye of man ever did, or shall, or can see! What goodly plants hast thou brought forth of the earth, in wild, unknown regions, which ro man ever beheld! What great wits hast thou shut up in a willing obscurity, which the world never takes notice of! In all which, thou showest, that it is not only the use and benefit of man, which thou regardest, in the great variety of thy creation, and acts of administration of the world; but thine own glory, and the fulfilling of thine own good pleasure: and, if only the angels of heaven be witnesses of thy great works, thou canst not want a due celebration of thy praise. It is just with thee, O God, that thou shouldest regard only thy blessed self, in all that thou doest, or hast done; for all is thine, and thou art all. Oh, that I could sincerely make thee the perfect scope of all my thoughts, of all my actions; that so we may both meet in one and the same happy end, thy glory in my eternal blessedness.
THE ENCHANTER'S NIGHTSHADE. ENCHANTER'S Nightshade! art thou named Poor simple, scentless flower?
Now tell us how thou cam'st so famed,
Surely thou hast some wondrous spell,
In the deep hours of night.
O tell us where the enchantment's brewed, Where is the magic found?
Leaf, stem, and bud in vain I've viewed,
Lurks it beneath the ground?
Our fathers saw a wild plant grow,
That had a strange black root,
They saw a blossom white as snow,
So there a secret charm must lie,
As in the vervain weed,
And the twisted root of the briony,
Aided the witches' deed.
Ah! this they name, poor bud, it tells
When the sad thought of witches' spells
Could mingle with sweet flowers.
And there were apparitions dire,
Haunting each lovely glade,
"Blue meagre hag in fog or fire,"
And these were England's merry days?
For where dark superstition sways
'Tis now our hours are fair and bright,
Is England's pleasant day.
THE SAVIOUR'S LEGACY.
E. L. A.
"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you." John xiv. 27.
STAY; weary, troubled soul,
By sorrow driven,
Look up! for there alone
May peace be found;
Oh! word of sweetest tone,
Oh! soothing sound.
Peace, which the world knows not,
Peace, left to those who seek,
By Christ in heaven;
"Tis freely given.
"My peace," 'tis Jesu's word,
"I give to you:"
Refuse not Christ the Lord,
"Twill save from woe.
He died, that for your sin
He might atone;
None could God's favor win,
But Christ alone.
Strive then that peace to win,
So freely given ;
And when o'erwhelmed by sin,