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and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this ? She saith unto Him, Yea, Lord; I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.” “ That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man, triumphantly; "nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read, and thy father shall die happy!” “I do believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father, who is in heaven."

The father seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. His faded eyes kindled; his pale cheek glowed; his palsied hand seemed to wax strong; and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime. “ Into thy hands, O God, I commit my spirit.” And so saying, he gently sunk back on his pillow, and I heard a sigh. There was then a long, deep silence; and the father, and mother, and child rose from their knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white, placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest; and without lamentations, save the lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around THE DEATH-BED OF THE FATHER.

J. WILSON.

LESSON CCXVI.

THE ADMONITION.

The School-Boy had been rambling all the day,
A careless, thoughtless idler, till the night
Came on, and warned him homeward : then he left
The meadows, where the morning had been passed,
Chasing the butterfly, and took the road
Toward the cottage where his mother dwelt;
He had her parting blessing, and she watched
Once more to breathe a welcome to her child,
Who sauntered lazily—ungrateful boy!
Till deeper darkness came o'er sky and earth ;
And then he ran, till, almost breathless grown,
He passed within the wicket-gate, which led
Into the village church-yard : then he paused
And earnestly looked round; for o'er his head

The gloomy cypress waved, and at his feet
Lay the last bed of many a villager.

But on again he pressed with quickened step, “ Whistling aloud to keep his courage up." The bat came flapping by; the ancient church Threw its deep shadows o’er the path he trod, And the boy trembled like the aspen leaf; For now he fancied that all shapeless forms Came flitting by him, each with bony hand, And motion as if threatening; while a weight Unearthly pressed the sachel and the slate He strove to keep within his grasp. The wind Played with the feather that adorned his cap, And seemed to whisper something horrible. The clouds had gathered thickly round the moon; But, now and then, her light shone gloriously Upon the sculptured tombs and humble graves, And, in a moment, all was dark again.

O’ercome with terror, the pale boy sank down, And wildly gazed around him, till his eye Fell on a stone, on which these warning words Were carved :

" TIMx ! thou art flying rapidly,

But whither art thou flying ?”
“ To the grave, which yours will be;

I wait not for the dying.
In early youth you laughed at me,

And, laughing, passed life's morning;
But, in thine age, I laugh at thee;

Too late to give thee warning."

“Death! thy shadowy form I see,

The steps of Time pursuing :
Like him thou comest rapidly :

What deed must thou be doing ?"
“ Mortal! my message is for thee:

Thy chain to earth is rended: ( bear thee to eternity :

Prepare ! thy course is ended !"

Attentively the fainting boy perused
The warning lines; then grew more terrified,

For, from the grave, there seemed to rise a voice,
Repeating them, and telling him of time
Misspent, of death approaching rapidly,
And of the dark eternity that followed.
His fears increased, till on the ground he lay,
Almost bereft of feeling and of sense.
And there his mother found him :
From the damp church-yard sod she bore her child,
Frightened to feel his clammy hands, and hear
The sighs and sobs that from his bosom came.

'Twas strange the influence which that fearful hour
Had o'er his future life ; for, from that night,
He was a thoughtsul, an industrious boy.
And still the memory of those warning words
Bids him Reflect, now that he is a man,
And writes these feeble lines that others may.

ANONYMOUS

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The eye was closed, and calm the breast;
'T was sleep; the weary was at rest,
While fancy on her rainbow wings,
Ranged through a world of new made things,
'Mid regions pure and visions bright,
Formed but to mock the waking sight.
For ah! how light does slumber sit
On sorrow's brow! how quickly flit
From her pale throne, when envious care
Comes robed in clouds, and frowning, there!
Again; I saw the falling lid,
And from his sight the world was hid ;
The lip was moved; the knee was bent:
The heavy-laden spirit went,
Bearing her burden from the dust
Up to her only rock of trust;
And, childlike, on her Father's breast
Cast off the load, and found her rest!
And this was prayer ; 't was faith and love
Communing with a God above !

At length that eye was locked; the key
Had opened heaven; 't was Death ; 't was ho
Had sweetly quelled the mortal strife,
And to the saint, the gates of life
Unfolded. On the sleeper's brow
Lay the smooth seal of quiet, now,
Which none could break. The soul that here
Dwelt with eternal things so near,
Had burst her bonds, to soar on high,
And left to earth the thrice-closed eye!

Miss H. F. GOULD.

LESSON CCXVIII.

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
“ Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
“Look aloft!" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret,
66 Look aloft!" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart,
“ Look aloft!" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom.

And oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, “look aloft !" and depart.

the past

J. LAWRENCE.

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I was musing on the strange inclination which every man feels to deceive himself, and considering the advantages and dangers proceeding from this gay prospect of futurity, when, falling asleep, I found myself suddenly placed in a garden, of which my sight could descry no limits. Every scene about me was gay and gladsome, light with sunshine, and fragrant with perfumes; the ground was painted with all the variety of spring, and all the choir of nature was singing in the groves.

When I had recovered from the first raptures, with which the confusion of pleasure had for a time entranced me, I began to take a particular and deliberate view of this delightful region. I then perceived that I had yet higher gratifications to expect, and that, at a small distance from me, there were brighter flowers, clearer fountains, and more lofty groves, where the birds, which I yet heard but faintly, were exerting all their power of melody. The trees about me were beautiful with verdure, and fragrant with blossoms; but I was tempted to leave them by the sight of ripe fruits, which seemed to hang only to be plucked. I therefore walked hastily forward, but found, as I proceeded, that the colors of the field faded at my approach, the fruit fell before I reached it, the birds flew still singing before me, and, though I pressed onward with great celerity, I was still in sight of pleasures of which I could not yet gain the possession, and which seemed to mock my diligence, and to retire as I advanced.

Though I was confounded with so many alternations of joy and grief, I yet persisted to go forward, in hopes that these fugitive delights would, in time, be overtaken. At length k'saw an innumerable multitude of every age and of both sexes, who seemed all to partake of some general felicity; for every cheek was flushed with confidence, and every eye sparkled with eagerness; yet each appeared to have some particular and secret pleasure, and very few were willing communicate their intentions, or extend their concern beyond themselves. Most of them seemed, by the rapidity of their motion, too busy to gratify the curiosity of a stranger, and, therefore, I

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