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But now my strength doth ebb apacem-
Father, can the church award me grace,
And among the blessed a dwelling-place ?"
“My son,” the reverend friar spake,
“Behold! how the faëry webs shall break;
Thou hast fought the fight— thou hast battled long-
And the victor here is not the strong;
But the gates of heaven are opened wide,
And the contrite heart is the sanctified !
Give up--stand like the Hebrews, still —
And behold the wonders of God's will ;-
Lay down thy strift—lay down thy pride -
Lay all thy hope on Christ who died,
And thou art saved ;—for at his spell
Not faëry webs, but the gates of hell
Are dashed aside, like the morning mist —
Oh, vainly might fay or fiend resist!
Have faith ! 'tis the spell of glory, given
To burst all bars on the way to heaven ;
Have faith-have heaven, my son.”—There ran
A sudden joy through the dying man;
And the holy father bent his knee,
Chanting, “ Te laudamus, Domine!”

A REMONSTRANCE.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND WHO COMPLAINED OF BEING

ALONE IN THE WORLD.

BY ALARIC. A. WATTS.

I.

On say not thou art all alone,

Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth ;
Sigh not o’er joys for ever flown,

The vacant chair,—the silent hearth :
Why should the world's unholy mirth

Upon thy quiet dreams intrude,
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth,

That people oft thy solitude !

II.
Though many a fervent hope of youth

Hath passed, and scarcely left a trace ; -
Though earth-born love, its tears and truth,

No longer in thy heart have place;

Nor time, nor grief, can e'er efface

The brighter hopes that now are thine,The fadeless love,-all-pitying grace,

That makes thy darkest hours divine !

III.

Not all alone ; — for thou canst hold

Communion sweet with saint and sage, And gather gems, of price untold,

From many a pure, untravelled page :Youth's dreams, the golden lights of age,

The poet's lore, -are still thine own; Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,

Oh, how canst thou be all alone !

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Not all alone ;--- the lark's rich note,

As mounting up to heaven, she sings; The thousand silvery sounds that float

Above— below-on morning's wings; The softer murmurs twilight brings,

The cricket's chirp, cicala’s glee;All earth—that lyre of myriad strings

Is jubilant with life for thee !

Not all alone ;—the whispering trees,

The rippling brook, the starry sky,Have each peculiar harmonies,

To soothe, subdue, and sanctify :-
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,

For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,--

To say, thou art not all alone!

VI.

Not all alone ;-a watchful eye,

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall; A saving hand is ever nigh,

A gracious Power attends thy call : When sadness holds thy heart in thrall,

Is oft his tenderest mercy shown; Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all,

And thou canst never be ALONE!

THE CONFESSION.

BY JOHN GALT, ESQ.

My furlough had nearly expired ; and, as I was to leave the village the next morning to join my regiment, then on the point of being shipped off at Portsmouth, for India, several of my old companions spent the evening with me, in the Marquis of Granby. They were joyous, hearty lads; but mirth bred thirst, and drinking begot contention.

I was myself the soberest of the squad, and did what I could to appease their quarrels. The liquor, however, had more power than my persuasion, and at last it so exasperated some foolish difference about a song, between Dick Winlaw and Jem Bradley, that they fell to fighting, and so the party broke up.

Bradley was a handsome, bold, fine fellow, and I had more than once urged him to enlist in our corps. Soon after quitting the house, he joined me in my way home, and I spoke to him again about enlisting, but his blood was still hot-he would abide no reason—he could only swear of the revenge he would inflict upon Winlaw. This led to some remonstrance on my part, for Bradley

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