coveries of the fine arts; all the attractions of these societies and all the pleasures of the passions, have nothing, I do not say which exhausts the love of God in Christ Jesus, I do not say which answers, I venture to say which approaches it. To accomplish this love, there must be another world; there must be 'new heavens and a new earth."

O that I could describe the believer,-his unutterable felicity, while all "the tribes of the earth mourn and smite their breasts:" O that I could describe the believer assured, triumphant, founded on the Rock of Ages, " hastening unto the coming of the day of God;" aiming with transports of joy which we cannot express,-O may we one day experience these transports! aiming to approach the presence of Jesus Christ as his tenderest friend and deliverer, literally proving the truth of the promise, "When thou passest through the waters they shall not overflow thee, when thou walkest through the fires, they shall not kindle upon thee!" O that I could represent him, crying, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly!" Come! receive a creature once defiled with sin, sometimes even rebellious, yet having in his bosom principles of love to thee, but now ravished with transports of joy, because he is entering on a world, in which he shall be always obedient, and always faithful.

SAURIN.

SONG.

A LONG farewell to sin and sorrow,
To beam of day and evening shade!
High in glory breaks our morrow,
With light that cannot fade.

While mortal flesh in flame is bleeding,
For humble penitence and love,
Our Brother and our Lord is pleading
At Mercy's throne above.

We leave the hated and the hating
Existence sad in toil and strife;

The great, the good, the brave are waiting,
To hail our opening life.

Earth's faded sounds our ears forsaking,

A moment's silence death shall be; Then, to heaven's jubilee awaking, Faith ends in victory.

MISS BAILLIE.

AFFECTING LETTER FROM A DYING WIFE.

BEFORE this can reach the best of husbands and the fondest lover, those tender names will be of no more concern to me. The indisposition in which you, to obey the dictates of your honour and duty, left me, has increased upon me, and I am acquainted by my physicians I cannot live a week longer. At this time, my spirits fail me; and it is the ardent love I have for you, that carries me beyond my strength, and enables me to tell you, the most painful thing in the prospect of death, is, that I must part with you. But let it be a comfort to you, that I have no guilt that hangs upon me, no unrepented folly that retards me, but I pass away my last hours in reflecting upon the happiness in which we have lived together, and in sorrow that it is so soon to have an end. This is a frailty which I hope is so far from criminal, that methinks there is a kind of piety in being so unwilling to be se

parated from a state which is the institution of Heaven, and in which we have lived according to its laws. As we know no more of the next life, but that it will be an happy one to the good, and miserable to the wicked, why may we not please ourselves at least, to alleviate the difficulty of resigning this being, in imagining that we shall have a sense of what passes below, and may possibly be employed in guiding the steps of those with whom we walked with innocence when mortal? Why may not I hope to go on in my usual work, and, though unknown to you, be assistant in all the conflicts of your mind? Give me leave to say to you, O best of men, that I cannot figure to myself a greater happiness than in such an employment. To be present at all the adventures to which human life is exposed, to administer slumber to thy eye-lids in the agonies of a fever, to cover thy beloved face in the day of battle, to be with thee a guardian angel, incapable of wound or pain, where I have longed to attend thee when a weak, a fearful woman. These, my dear, are the thoughts with which I warm my poor languid heart; but, indeed, I am not capable, under my present weakness, of bearing the strong agonies of mind I fall into, when I form to myself the grief you will be in upon your first hearing of my departure. I will not dwell upon this; because your kind and generous heart will but be more afflicted, the more the person for whom you lament offers you consolation. My last breath will, if I am myself, expire in a prayer for you. I shall never see thy face again. Farewell, for ever.

SPECTATOR.

FUNERAL HYMN.

THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave!—we no longer behold thee,

Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy

side;

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,

And sinners may die, for the sinless have died!

Thou art gone to the grave!-and its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking,

And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song!

Thou art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;

He gave thee-He took thee-and He will restore

thee,

And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.

ANONYMOUS.

"IN THE WORLD YE SHALL HAVE TRIBULA. TION, BUT BE OF GOOD CHEER."

THERE must be shade spots in the pilgrimage :
Our Father wills it so.-There lurks a thorn
Even in the rose-cup which we cull and wear
Next to our heart. What matters it?—The cloud,
The pang are transient ;--but the hope that springs
From their stern ministry,—the faith that looks
Up to its God, when these low skies are dim,
Outweigh all miseries which this fleeting world
In her worst wrath can teach.-The Saviour knew
Her whole of tribulation,-yet he bade

Be of good cheer,-since in the shielded breast
Was power to overcome.―

-Wilt thou despair,

Thou born of God! because the shallow rills
Fed but by dew-drops of terrestrial good,
Recede and vanish ?-Sent awhile to share
Time's changes, and on death's dark wing to rise
Above them all, why should a sway so brief
Appal the spirit ?-Think how low thy brow,
Thy throbbing brow beneath the clods shall rest;
How soon forgotten 'mid its daily haunts
Thy form must be.-

-Another hand shall pluck

Thy cherish'd flowrets, and a race unknown
Reap the ripe fruits of all thy sleepless care,
And thank thee not.-Another at thy board
Thy place shall fill, and in thy fireside chair
A stranger sit, while thou no more shalt claim
Note or remembrance. This shall neutralize
Thy bitterness of spirit, when thy props
Are stricken from beneath thee,-or the grave
Bids thee pursue a lonely pilgrimage,
Hiding thy bosom's idols.