integrity; or, if we have departed from it, their solemn warnings may have awakened us from our dream; or their winning virtues may have invited us back from pleasures which were too unsubstantial to last, and which were already bringing forth their harvest of corruption! What a blessing are holy friends and kindred! With what earnestness should we utter our thanksgivings at the throne of grace, that their path and ours have lain side by side; that they have ministered to us of their spiritual gifts, and led us heavenward! We know that it is well for those who have fascinated us, and gained our hearts, to be removed, if they walk not aright with God; for they were taking our thoughts from him to whom they should be given. But is this the case with the good? that they should go away! if it depended upon them? if always we applied to them for advice? Where is our constancy, if it was they who kept us, and not we ourselves, in the right path? Every man must bear his own burden. They taught us how to carry it; it was well. They soothed us under its pressure; let us thank God that it was so.

Yes; it is expedient Where is our virtue, Where is our wisdom,

OUR ABBY'S DEAD.

BY S. W. PALMER.

GONE, forever! gone, forever;
Low thy lovely form doth lie;
Hushed thy voice, that charmed us ever,
Quenched the brightness of thine eye.

Hopes of fairest, sweetest promise,
Perished in thy young decay;
And the hour that bore thee from us,
Carried more than wealth away!

Yet our loss, not thine, gives anguish;
Thou hast won, with life's poor breath,
Life that ne'er shall end nor languish,
Early heaven with early death.

Much as do our hearts yearn o'er thee, Not one resurrection word,

Could it back to earth restore thee,

From our lips should e'er be heard.

Though our own sad loss distress us, May our souls, convinced that God Wounds to heal, and smites to bless us, Bear the blow, and kiss the rod !

When our household band was broken, O, by Death, who burst the tie, Warning words were kindly spoken, Which may make us meet to die!

Earth, whose luring charms within us,
Far too fond regards had bred,
Will not hence so woo or win us,
Since so bright a charm has fled.
Easier now to "set affection

On the things that are above,"
For, amid the bright collection,
Shines the jewel of our love!

A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

Ir strikes me as the most impressive of all sentiments, that "It will be the same, a hundred years after this!" It is often uttered in the form of a proverb, and with the levity of a mind that is not aware of its importance. A hundred years after this! Good heavens! with what speed and with what certainty will those hundred years come to their termination! This day will draw to a close, and a number of days make one revolution of the seasons. Year follows year, and a number of years make up a century. These little intervals of time accumulate, and fill up that mighty space which appears to fancy so big and so immeasurable. hundred years will come, and they will see the wreck of whole generations. Every living thing that now moves on the face of the earth, will disappear from it. The infant that now hangs on his mother's bosom, will only live in the remembrance of his grandchildren. The scene of life and intelli

The

gence that is now before me, will be changed into the dark and loathsome forms of corruption. The people who now hear me, they will cease to be spoken of; their memory will perish from the face of the country, their flesh will be devoured by worms; the dark and creeping things that live in the holes of the earth, will feed upon their bodies; their coffins will have mouldered away, and their bones be thrown up in the new-made grave. And is this the consummation of all things? Is this the final end and issue of man? Is there nothing beyond time and the grave to alleviate the gloomy picture, to chase away these dismal images? Must we sleep forever in the dust, and bid adieu to the light of heaven?

THE DYING SAINT.

HEAR ye, from yonder couch, the struggling breath, That tells of weakness and the hour of death?

It is the good man's death. But mark his air;

The calm of resignation settles there.
No dread of death; the terror and the gloom,
Are not for those who look beyond the tomb.
Faith penetrates the dark and deep; her eye
Beams full and bright with immortality.

No dread of death; the messenger of peace,
Death comes to give the Christian his release;
Death comes to burst the fetter and the chain.
For him to live was Christ, to die is gain;

How vast the gain, no language may disclose, -
How vast that gain, the saint in glory knows;
The joy unspeakable which evermore,

The ransomed ones shall taste on Canaan's shore.
The ransomed ones, by Jesus' blood forgiven,
The called, the sanctified, shall enter heaven;
The saved from death, from woe, and every sigh,
Shall swell the loud hosannas of the sky.

9

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THE DESIGN OF AFFLICTION.

MANY years ago, a pious and devoted clergyman entered the shop of a prosperous London bookseller, with whom he was on terms of intimate and Christian friendship. He inquired for his friend, and when told that he was at home, but particula ly engaged, sent a messenger to him to the effect that he wished for an interview with him, if but for a few minutes. This message being

delivered, the clergyman was invited to walk up stairs into the bookseller's sitting-room. He entered the room, and found his friend sitting by his child's cot. The child was dying, but with affection strong in death, it had clasped its father's hand, and was holding it with a convulsive grasp.

"You are a father," said the afflicted parent, "or I should not have allowed you to witness such

a scene."

"Thank God, thank God," fervently exclaimed the minister, as he instinctively comprehended at