DEATH.

MEN live and die in secret; none can see
When going out or lighting up the flame,
Save the all-seeing eye;-frail mortals, we
Call death and life what are but so in name;
Death is that shunning Him who bids thee die,
Which thou but disobedience learnst to call;
Words cannot hide thee from the searching eye,
That sees thy corse beneath their sable pall;
And life the lifting up that thou dost feel,
When thy feet follow where he bids thee go;
A life beyond disease, or severing steel,
That nought but him who gives it, fears below;
This be thy life, and death shall flee away,
For thou hast learned for ever to obey.

JONES VERY.

THE BIRTH-DAY.

THE birth-day of the soul, how sweet its dawn!
It comes to me, and yet it ever is;

Upon the skies its colored form is drawn,
The green earth says 'tis hers, the sea 'tis his;
The voice of feathered tribes, thick-swarming, tell
The day is come, to fields and waiting grove;
The meadow's hush, and forest's rising swell
Are heard in song by winds that o'er them rove;
'Tis music all; but higher song than these
Bear nobler witness to the day's glad birth;
They but the ear of sense a moment please,
The hymn I hear is not of sense or earth;
A strain too low for earth's loud tongue to raise,
The voice unheard of God's eternal praise.

J. V.

WITHOUT Common belief no society can prosper-say rather no society can exist; for without ideas held in common, there is no common action, and without common action, there may still be men, but there is no social body.

DE TOCQUEVILLE.

LIGHT AND SHADE.

"WHAT a wonderful contrivance this Post-office is, prominent among all the wonders of civilized life, enabling friends to hold these paper talks across the highlands, unndeafened even by the roar of Niagara." As I seated myself by my table on which lay several unopened letters from distant parts of the country, I glanced upon this remark of a friend. And what a wonderful contrivance is the mind, which, by means of these little signs of thought, can recal past scenes, live over again days of gladness and sorrow, and people a solitary room with images of friends long absent and far distant. Worthy of its Divine Architect! but like him, past finding out. All we know of it is from its effects. Summoned to action instantly, it annihilates distance, and recals days and years, which, as with the wings of an eagle, have hastened away. Almost involuntarily speaking thus, I proceeded to open my letters: and the various character of their contents deeply interested me, as an illustration of some of the lights and darker shades of life.

The first was an invitation to a party. It had been long on its way, and the event was passed. Immediately however, my thoughts reverted to the crowded and gay scene. Familiar faces were there. The young, clustered in groups, were happy in the exhuberance of joyous spirits; the elder, in excitement and sympathy, were losing through an evening the gravity of age. Men of business and politics dropped their usual care-begetting thoughts, and in merry glee circulated the joke, inuendo, or repartee. All was life, light and gaiety. And what was the influence of this scene? God designed that it should strengthen and purify as well as exhilirate the mind. He gathered that little circle, that kindly sympathies might be awakened, the golden links of human brotherhood be closer drawn around human hearts, and the grateful offerings of praise be enkindled. Yet how few perceived his purpose! How few returned from the house of joy to a home made happier by the voice of praise! How many gathered around the fireside to scan the dress, manners and words of a neighbor, and amuse themselves, or indulge a despicable vanity by endeavoring to amuse others with severe criticisms upon some whom they had professed to meet as friends.

I opened another letter. It was from one whose spirit delighted in gladness, but sympathised also with sorrow; in

whose character light and shade, cheerfulness and sobriety, are beautifully mingled. It was penned in a sick chamber. "It is now midnight; and I am watching the cradle of our little boy. He lies very low, and the doctor thinks there is a narrow chance for life. My affections fasten strongly on this little one; and I would not murmur if he is taken from us; yet I am not able to say from the heart with cheerfulness, 'Father, thy will be done.'"

Within a few days I have been convicted of the truth that we do not know how to be thankful for the blessings we enjoy. The last week has been a very cold one. One bitter cold day I went out in search of some of the suffering poor. I entered one house in which lived several families, and by my hands and feet crawled up a narrow staircase, each step not being more than half as wide as the length of my feet. I knocked at the door, and entered. There was a woman with four children, the youngest two years old. She was without a stick of wood, with no fire, and had had none for several days. The little children's bare arms were blue and cold as ice could make them. I came out sorrowing that there was so much misery in the world, and rejoicing that I am surrounded by so so many comforts.

I went further on, and entered a house in which there were only three rooms: in two of them most of the glass was broken out of the windows, and boards were nailed up before them. This of course made the rooms quite dark. A woman lighted a candle, and went into the third room, which, although it was the middle of the day, was perfectly dark, every pane of glass being broken out, and boards nailed up. Around the partition and walls the wet frost glittered bright. Here, close to the frosty partition, in a pine box, lay a human being, a girl about thirteen years old, very sick and feeble with a most distressing cough. We soon got her out, and made things a little more comfortable for them.

I will give you one more scene. I had returned home and was seated at dinner, when I was requested to visit a family. I found them in a plain, boarded cell. Here was an old and a young woman, the latter, mother of two bright and beautiful children, and a young man, twenty-six years of age. The poor man was worn with the hip complaint. Years of sickness had wasted him to a skeleton. I never saw a more emaciated figure than this man, as entirely helpless he was lifted from his chair to his bed. There the sufferer sits or lies down, from morning till night, with no friends to amuse or

sympathise with him. I intend to go in every day, and read and talk a little with him. Yesterday a friend accompanied me. He conversed and prayed. While he was praying I observed one of the little girls weeping. When the prayer was ended, the child of sensibility turned away her face to conceal her tears. My heart was subdued within me. I learn many lessons from daily scenes like these.

Yes these are the places to learn lessons'-lessons of contentment, gratitude, benevolence and piety. The affections are more often attuned for heaven in the house of sorrow than of joy.

My next letter was from a young friend, a Christian brother, before whom life was unfolding its fresh and fairest scenes. It breathed a spirit full of gladness and anticipation. Christian faith added brightness to visions, which Providence seemed to unfold with promise of usefulness and happiness. And after dwelling for a few moments on the bright prospects and the present and future joys of my friend, I broke the remaining seal. It read thus:

"God has again visited me, and removed from me my little babe. The anguish of my heart I cannot describe. Oh how earnestly did I plead that my little Rebecca might be spared to this widowed heart! Dear object of affection! She just opened her eyes upon this earthly scene, and left it before she had known its transient joys or felt its sorrows. Better, far better I know, than to be with me; for 'of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Who can doubt it? Yet I miss her, and cannot but grieve. I have hours of deep, painful wretchedness. My mind goes back to one little year. Then I was blessed with all that could make man happy. Now, my home is desolate. Strangers supply the places of those who were dearest to me. I wish in my hours of sorrow or joy, that I could pour my thoughts into your bosom, where I know they would meet with something that would bring back consolation to me. You will say, I must look above. True: but still it relieves the heart of half its distressing load, to pour out its sorrows to a friend on earth."

Would that I could speak words of sympathy to you, my friend. But what are human words in these hours of the soul's agony? Absolutely nothing. And yet I have often been surprized at the soothing efficacy of a few feeble words on a bosom heaving with distress. What has done this, I have asked; and a voice whispered, 'the power that by a few words calmed the stormy sea of Galilee: "It is not ye that speak, but your Father that speaketh in you."

VOL. VIII.-59:

This letter recalled to my mind a long train of reminiscences. While in the discharge of ministerial duty, several years since, I formed an acquaintance with this family. There was something of romance in their history. They had lived together as children. Attending the same school, and joining in similar plays; where one was found the other was usually near. They early found pleasure in contributing to the happiness of each other. Thus they were schooled for life's companionship.

They had been married a few months when I first met them. And seldom have I been more impressed by a picture of domestic felicity. The bride was beautiful through an expression of goodness and happiness. An expression of satisfaction, of joy, leaped out from every feature of her countenance. We parted. And in the course of events which Providence often remarkably directs, in a few years they again came under my pastoral care. The first sight of the young wife, now a mother, told me the sad tale that the earthly union of this family would soon be severed. It was my privilege, always a sad, yet when Christian faith and resignation prevail, a happy one,-to walk down with the departing angel, as near to the shadow of the dark valley as loving friend may go, and to stand by the side of the bereaved husband, and whisper such consolation as the gospel, through its servants' lips, imparts. Painfully did I sympathise with this sorrowing father of a motherless child. I had seen his strong manly frame, almost broken down by grief, fasting and watching. Still one object bound him more strongly than others to life. This was the child of mutual affection; and this is now taken away. I am confident it was true, when he said, "I have hours of deep, painful wretchedness."

Such were the contents of the letters which I found this morning upon my table. Gathering them up, it occurred to me that here was an epitome of human life; health, prosperity and gladness; destitution, sickness and suffering; prospects, bright and flattering; hours of happiness, even felicity; hours of deep, painful wretchedness; life and death-light and shade. If the latter is mingled more freely in the picture, than the former, is not the picture more faithful? A few happy and prospered ones, may think it too dark. Hours of "painful wretchedness" are seldom, perhaps never, theirs. Life to such is all light, while to thousands, the light comes only in occasional gleams. They live in the shade. But is God then partial? Is happiness dealt out with stinted hands? Is life a curse? No-assuredly not. Suffering itself, is the fruit of God's love. The poor, afflicted one, whose heart God hath