The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."
He spoke, and bid the welcome tables spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall re-
pair,

Celestial odors breathe through purpled air,
And wings, whose colors glittered as the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis-
play.

The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion
grew,

Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do.

Warned by a bell, and close the hour with Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends,

prayer.

At length the world, renewed by calm repose,
Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose ;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near a closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck! the landlord's little
pride,

O strange return! grew black, and gasped,
and died!

And in a calm his settling temper ends;
But silence here the beauteous angel broke,
The voice of music ravished as he spoke :
"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice un-
known,

In sweet memorial rise before the Throne;
These charms success in our bright region
find,

And force an angel down to calm thy mind;
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky;

Then know the truth of government divine,

Horror of horrors: what, his only son! How looked our hermit when the fact was Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I. done! Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder And let these scruples be no longer thine. part,

The Maker justly claims that world he made;

And breathe blue fire, could more assault his In this the right of Providence is laid;

heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed;

His steps the youth pursues; the country lay
Perplexed with roads; a servant showed the
way;

A river crossed the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trod before;
Long arms of oak an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath them bending
glide.

The youth, who seemed to watch a time to
sin,

Its secret majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends.
"Tis thus, withdrawn, in state from human
eye,

The Power exerts his attributes on high,
Your action uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
What strange events can strike with more
surprise

Than those which lately struck thy wonder-
ing eyes?

Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty

just,

And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. Approached the careless guide, and thrust The great, vain man, who fared on costly

him in;

Plunging, he falls, and rising, lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.

While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,

He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries: "Detested wretch!" But scarce his speech began,

man;

food,

Whose life was too luxurious to be good,
Who made his ivory stand with goblets shine,
And forced his guests to morning draughts of
wine,

Has with the cup the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted
door

When the strange partner seemed no longer Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor, With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.

His youthful face seemed more serenely sweet, His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet,

Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair,

Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,

Without the manuscripts, up to the throne.

Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came,
But as they stopped by the river's brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.

How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then:
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men ;'
For have you not heard the words of Paul:
'Oh! let the women keep silence all.'"

I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two were met;

"Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, But all the brethren were talking yet,

friend,

How you attain to life's great end?
“Thus, with a few drops on my brow ;"
"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me
now."

"And I really think it will hardly do,

As I'm close communion,' to cross with you;
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."

Then straightway plunging with all his might
Away to the left-his friend to the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.

And now, when the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian Church came down ;
Of women there seemed an innumerable
throng,

But the men I could count as they passed
along.

And concerning the road they could never
agree;

The Old or the New way, which it could be,
Nor never a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.

And a sound of murmuring long and loud,
Came ever up from the thronging crowd:
"You're in the old way and I'm in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true-"

Or, "I'm in the old way and you're in the
new,

That is the false, and this is the true."

But the brethren only seemed to speak,
Modest the sisters walked and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,

And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over, side by side;
Side by side, for the way was one,
The toilsome journeying of life was done,
And all who in Christ the Savior died
Came out alike on the other side;
No forms, or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or manuscripts,
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.
ANONYMOUS.

MISSIONARY HYMN.

ROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strewn,
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high;
Shall we to man benighted

The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.
REGINALD HEBER.

IKE flakes of snow that fall unperceived upon the earth, the seemingly unimportant
events of life succeed one another. As the snow gathers together, so are our habits
formed. No single flake that is added to the pile produces a sensible change, no single
action creates, however it may exhibit, a man's character.
JEREMY TAYLOR.

AT THE LAST.

FEEL in myself the future life. I am like a forest which has been more than once cut down. The new shoots are stronger and livelier than ever. I am rising, I know, toward the sky. The sunshine is on my head. The earth gives me its generous sap, but Heaven lights me with the reflection of unknown worlds. You say the soul is nothing but the resultant of bodily powers. Why, then, is my soul the most luminous when my bodily powers begin to fail? Winter is on my head and eternal Spring is in my heart. Then I breathe, at this hour, the fragrance of the lilacs, the violets and the roses, as at twenty years. The nearer I approach the end the plainer I hear around me the immortal symphonies of the worlds which invite me. It is marvelous, yet simple. It is a fairy tale, and it is history. For half a century I have been writing my thoughts in prose, verse, history, philosophy, drama, romance, tradition, satire, ode, song-I have tried all. But I feel that I have not said the thousandth part of what is in me. When I go down to the grave I can say, like so many others, "I have finished my day's work;" but I cannot say, "I have finished my life." My day's work will begin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare. It closes in the twilight to open with the dawn. I improve every hour, because I love this world as my fatherland; because the truth compels me as it compelled Voltaire, that human divinity. My work is only a beginning. My monument is hardly above its foundation. I would be glad to see it mounting and mounting forever. The thirst for the infinite proves infinity.