flower gardens; the birds seemed to warble their softest and sweetest notes; and though each had a different tune, all was harmony. I had stood but a moment at the window, when I heard him say, "I am dying." I stepped quickly to his bedside, and saw death but too plainly stamped upon him-his last moments had come. “I thank you,” he said, { "for all your acts of kindness. May God reward you for it!" I then asked him how he felt in the near prospect of death. His only reply was, "Peace, peace, all is peace." A few moments after, he raised his eyes to heaven, while a smile of triumphant joy played upon his face, which even death could not steal away, and said, "I come-I come!" and his meek spirit passed away to rest on the bosom of its Savior. I could not but exclaim, as I followed his remains to the tomb, "Though I be doomed to witness my fondest hopes unrealized, to see my brightest expectations fail, O may I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his!"

THE sun had arisen bright and beautiful, shedding a flood of light on the craggy sides of the dark rocks that rear their heads, as if in protection, around the lovely village of B. On this morn it lay as if calmly and silently reposing at their feet.

But why is all so still in that glen among the mountains? Why is not its hum of many voices borne to the ear? The plough stands still in the half made furrow, and all business has ceased. Have the peaceful inhabitants left their homes, and sought an abode in other lands? Or has the sword of persecution found out even this quiet spot, and with one fell blow laid all in the dust? No, it is the Sabbath-the day of rest, and all feel that it is holy time. They have worshiped God in those wild fastnesses of nature for years. Parents have brought their children to kneel at the same altar where they themselves in childhood knelt, and to lisp their infant prayers within the same walls that sheltered their ancestors. The aged pastor who, in his younger days, guided their fathers, now breaks the bread of life for them. And they had fondly hoped to spend the remainder of their days in the same spot that gave them birth, and to be laid at last beneath the green sods of that valley which was so dear to them. But it was not so to be.

Their pastor was a man of distinguished piety and zeal.

This of itself was sufficient to mark him as a victim for persecution. But so blameless was the character of this holy man, that, for a time, not even his enemies could find ground of accusation. Yet what character could long stand untouched by

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calumny, or untarnished by misrepresentation, before such monsters in human form as those minions of despotism who so long deluged the fair land of Scotland in blood?

That loved minister of that humble parish was at length forbidden to speak again "in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." And this is to be the last day he is to stand among them to proclaim the word of God.

Slowly the groups gather, and fill the little church. The aged servant of God rises up in his place. His voice trembles as his eye wanders over his people. He is to bid them farewell-perhaps for ever. He thinks of the many happy, peaceful scenes they had enjoyed together within those walls-of the songs of praise that had been borne upward from that spot, which was no more to re-echo the sound of his voice, and of the opportunities he had enjoyed of gathering together that little affectionate band, to teach them the way to God. Many had grown old under his teachings-to many he was a spiritual father, and some who gamboled around him, in all the sportiveness of childhood, when he began his ministrations among them, were now leading their own little ones in the same path in which themselves had trod. Tears course the hard and bronzed cheeks of many as they grasp his hand; and streaming eyes are raised to his as Heaven's richest blessings are invoked to rest upon him.

The last farewell has been uttered-the last hand has been pressed; and he turns to leave the sanctuary. It is hard to sunder all those near and dear ties that have been twined around his heart; yet, at the command of God, he is willing to give up all he holds most dear, even life itself.

Their faith is now to be put to a more rigid test. Both he and his people are called to bear yet severer trials. They are driven from their homes by the red sword of persecution, and forced to hide themselves, in dens and clefts of the rock, from the sight of man. There they go-the mother bearing in her arms her infant trust-the aged leaning for support upon the strength of youth-while manhood's vigorous arm supplies a conveyance for the infirm and feeble. A sorrowful procession, yet rejoicing, they seek a shelter from the storm amid the rocks and caves of their native wilds.

Amid the secluded mountain fastnesses they again met; and the grateful song of praise and the subdued accents of prayer again ascended to the ear of Him who lists to the mourner's cry, and who ever cares for those who love and serve him.

It is a bright, balmy morning in June. Nature appears arrayed in her brightest hues, and assumes her most smiling aspect. The pastor and his flock are again met for the worship of Him who had protected them thus far through the storm; for their cruel persecutors had, for a time, retired; and once

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more, at least, they may meet without fear. No costly edifice, or marble pillars, rise around them. Theirs is nature's temple. The dark sides of the rocks rise towering above them, and the creeping vines and mountain flowers that grow amid the clefts, form a far more beautiful drapery than aught the hand of man could devise. No stately architecture rises around, to secure for their minister ad

ditional respect. The gentle breeze floats freely around him, and gently, as if in reverence, lifts the gray locks from his temples. At the appointed time he arises, and, lifting his hands, implores a blessing to rest upon the little band that are gathered around him. The simple services are soon ended. But why move they not from their places? Look! from the crowd steps forth a young mother. In her arms she bears a sweet babe. She has come to this mountain fastness, where the eternal rocks form the walls of nature's temple, to dedicate her child to God.

No finely chiseled font is there to hold the baptismal water. No stately priest in white robes appears to administer the sacred rites. A natural form basin, filled with the drops of heaven, constitutes the simple laver, and their venerated pastor the officiating minister of the solemn scene. Taking the innocent one in his arms, and sprinkling the pure water on its brow, he signed it with the seal of the covenant. It was a holy sight. The circumstances, the scene, the occasion, all conspired to make it one of thrilling interest. A song of praise closed the interesting exercise; and all were soon embosomed again in clefts, which constituted their shelter from the storms of persecution. LIZZIE.

A PILGRIM'S THANKSGIVING. MR. EDITOR,-I transmit, for the pages of the Repository, the following stanzas, which I have just discovered among some forgotten manuscripts of one with all of whose interests and thoughts it is my happiness to be intimate. They were written many years ago, in a dreary tavern in the midst of a wild and sterile region, on the evening of the last day of a year mostly spent in protracted journeyings in search of health. They are interesting, and, I think, may be instructive, as the spontaneous and unstudied effusion of a spirit bruised by many sorrows, but strong and joyful in the supports and consolations of faith. SPERANZA.

Now would I, Lord, approach thy throne, With humble love and filial fear,

To make the grace and mercy known, That crowned my life the by-gone year.

O, may my grateful song arise,

Like incense, to thy pure abode, And richer blessings, from the skies, Wake strains sublimer for my God. The sun and moon, along their spheres, Were not more prompt to roll and shine, Than thou, O Lord, to heed my tears,

And stay my heart with grace divine.

Through changing climes, a pilgrim, I
Wandered afar in quest of ease;
No friend was there, no brother nigh,
To soothe the anguish of disease.
But thou, my God, wast with me there-
The holy Comforter was mine;
Nor could a brother's love compare

With friendship, Jesus, such as thine!
Lone, devious wastes and wilds I tried-
The arid plain-the mountain high-
Where yawning caverns loudly cried,
"One step leads to eternity."
But He who sends his angel train

To make the heirs of life secure,
Made valleys hills, and hills a plain,

And made my sliding footsteps sure.
I saw the angry tempest frown,
And set his vengeful hosts at strife:
He sent his dark tornadoes down,

To gorge them on the spoils of life.
Heavy the rumbling thunders broke,
Fearful the lightnings blazed around;
The stately pine and reverend oak
Were rived, and tumbled on the ground.
But whilst the fury of the Lord

Was poured on lifeless nature's breast,
I claimed the promise of his word,
And 'neath his sheltering wings had rest.
Jehovah rode upon the sky,

And shot his arrow through the air;
He let his angry lightnings fly,

But knew a trembling worm to spare.
And when the breeze, which summer brings,
Was poison like the Siroc's breath,
And sunbeams bore, upon their wings,
Contagion, pestilence, and death,
Unhurt, I felt the noontide ray,

And drank the poison of the air;
For God my refuge was by day,

And midnight watches owned his care. Being eternal! King of kings!

Whose courts adoring seraphs throng!
From whom the hope of mortals springs,
To whom their songs of praise belong,

O, may thy providence and grace,
Which blessed, sustained, and brought me here,
Be still my strength and hiding place,
Through all the changes of the year.
Then blighted hopes and fell disease,

If these shall yet my portion be,
Will but enhance to high degrees
The bliss of immortality.

Or if the beams of health once more

Shall cheer my heart, and nerve my frame, Then every breath, and every power

Shall spread the honors of the Lamb.

Great God, my trust is in thy name, My plea the blood of Christ alone, In life and death my prayer the same, Father, not mine, thy will be done!

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

BY MRS. S. M. BAKER.

AH! why this anxious thought-
This melancholy stealing o'er the soul,
When all is bright and joyous? E'en pleasure,
With her gilded cup, allures the giddy sense,
And nature, too, arrayed in loveliest garb
Of brilliant hues, and tints of richest dye,
As if lit up with heaven-born sympathies,
Seems to invite to kindred joys-

The mounting eyesight, with its upward gaze,
Rests on the wide-spread arch of heaven,
As pure, as bright as crystal founts that flow,
Or pearly dews distilled on op'ning flow'rs.
But e'en the azure sky,
With all its garniture, and lustrous light,
Falls on the waiting sight, deep ting'd with woe;
While every lingering cloud that rests
Upon its tranquil ocean bosom,
With more than thoughtful aspect marks
The mournful tragedy of Nain.

The wail of mourning
Vibrates on the listening ear, and tells
Life's bitt'rest cup is tasted to the dregs;
While fun'ral knell re-echoes on the breeze
The woful dirge, and deeply stirs
Fountains of sorrow in each bosom-cell,
As teeming throngs, with brimming eyes,
Attest the gushing sympathies of soul,
Which consolation seek, and only find,
Where angel pity, priceless boon of heaven,
Commiseration lends to those who weep.
No plebeian sound is heard,
Of mattock, axe, or weaver's patient loom-
No minstrel's fairy song, or saw's harsh cadence:
All, all is hushed to sacred stillness.
And, lo! the pompous city gate is open wide,
That eager multitudes may enter:
But who is this in near approach,

With journeyings faint, weary and destitute:
No precious coin within his scrip-
No scented robes of oriental dye,

Nor mitre on his head, nor sandals mean
Protect his way-worn feet:

No herald's voice proclaims his coming-
No princely retinue, with royal mandate,
Waits to do him homage, or escort
To where reclines some sceptred potentate
On luxury's couch? The King of kings!
But as the gate he essays to enter,
A funeral train nears where he waits,

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Bearing their dead. Mid the vast concourse,
Lo! one mourner lone, in weeds of woe,
And she a widow, the last sad tribute
Of affection paying to her only son.
How oft had this fond mother knelt
Beside that son's sick bed, for weary days,
And sleepless vigils kept, perchance to catch
Some symptom faint of his recovery!
How had expiring hope revived, and
Fainter grown, with ev'ry throbbing pulse!
Her practic'd eye with life's last flitting gleam
Long since had grown familiar: her skillful ear
Well knew the hollow touch of death's insidious
Footsteps. What sighs, as though her heart would
break,

When the last dying glance was faintly rais'd,
And death's chill dew stood on his marble face!
With wild appeals she clasped his hands,
And press'd his brow with one long, bitter kiss-
Her bowers of bliss were early riven.

The nectar'd cup of dawning joys,
Erst youthful roses faded from her cheek,
Was frittered in her sight.

Her bosom's first beloved, he who,

In Eden days, was sunlight to her home,

Whose flute-like voice was music to her soul,

Had fallen, in manhood's haughty prime,
Beneath death's withering power;

And, one by one, as primrose droops

'Neath noontide's scorching ray, her household band With premature decay were blighted

In vernal morn of life, and perished

For ever from her sight.

Alas! what hours of anguish keen embitter'd

That sad moment, when the sable pall was rais'd,
That vaulted damps might cluster thick around
Her cherished son.

But in this tide of agony and woe,

When stagnate at the fount life's current stands,
A touch arrests the footsteps slow of those
Who bear the corse from hence: the bier stands still:
Her wildered gaze heeds not the hand;

But tones of more than mortal pow'r to soothe,
Fall on her anxious ear. And list!
What words of balmy consolation

To that aching heart: "Weep not, weep not-
On thee I have compassion."

Then, as she raised her eyes beseechingly,
The first to meet the Savior's pitying glance,
A gleam of joy lit up her death-glazed eye,
Only surpassed by that which swelled
The bosom of our Lord, when death gave back,
At his omnific word, and to that mother
He restored from church-yard sleep her son.
She knelt upon that consecrated spot,
And, weeping, blest the Power that stilled
The troubled fountains of her chasten'd heart,
To one deep calm, of lowliest thankfulness.
Was it not thus, in all his wanderings.

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On earth? He sought associates not where
Haughty monarch's curse breathes mildew blight
On all who scorn with honey'd words to weave
Garlands of praise for acts of murd'rous deed-
The meed of fame, but virtue's foulest blot;
But wheresoe'er the impotent or maimed
Implored, from avarice's frost-seared heart,
A scanty pittance, or cheerless one, with
Rayless eyes, by lonely wayside sat,
Imploring mercy's aid;

Or tarried in some desert place, for patient hours, "Where no one comforted nor cared for him,"

To bless the countless multitude with healing touch,
And clothe with healthful vigor myriads,
Who groaned 'neath all the varied ills

"That checker life." Lo! here the Master breathes
The spirit of his mission; and fragments,
Multiplied to baskets full, are gathered up,
While thousand tongues, in one loud chorus join,
And on the stillness breaks, anew,
the song
Which swell'd angelic choirs, on that glad morn
Which dawned upon his birth.

In the celebrated retreat of "the ten thousand Greeks" under Xenophon, we are told by the historian, that "they arrived at a very high mountain called Techas, from whence they descried the sea. The first who beheld it raised great shouts of joy for a considerable time, which made Xenophon imagine that the vanguard was attacked, and hastened to support it. But as he approached nearer, he distinguished the cry of, 'The sea! the sea!' and when they had all come to the top, nothing was heard but a noise of the whole army, crying together, 'The sea! the sea!' while they could not refrain from tears, nor from embracing their generals and officers. And then, without waiting for orders, they heaped up a pile of stones, and erected a trophy with broken bucklers and shattered arms."

DAYS, weeks, and months wore heavy on,
And still the Grecian bands
Their slow, but glorious pathway won
Through vast, barbarian lands.
Their glorious path, for not in fear
Turned they from the foeman's plains;
And still they met his hovering spear
With a might that mocked at chains.
But lingering want and toil have power
To tame the strong man's soul,
And a surer work than the conflict's hour,

Hath suffering's slow control.

Those men, who thrilled at the trumpet's blast,
The fearless and the true,
Grew worn and haggard as they passed
The desert's perils through.

O'er vast and trackless mountain snows→→
Mid precipices wound-

On the river's bed, was the path of those
For home and freedom bound.

Yet on, still on, they sternly pressed:
How might he sink to die,

Who must give his dust to earth's dark breast
Beneath a Persian sky?

But while the still and gathered soul

The purpose strong sustained,

The eye grew tame that had flashed control,
And the haughty strength was drained;
And the warlike cheer was heard no more,
Through all the long array,
Though many a province trodden o'er

In lengthening distance lay.

Their step had lost the warrior's pride;

Yet on they moved-still on,

And their way now threads a mountain's side,
Whose steeps the skies had won.

Slowly, with weak and weary limb,

They reach that mountain brow,

And their glance is turned, though with sadness dim, To the distant vales below.

Fair gleamed those vales of smiling peace

Through summer's shining haze,
Outstretching far; but was it these
That fixed their straining gaze?

The sallow cheek grows strangely flushed!
The sunken eye has light!

With some strong thought their souls seem hushed-
Does mirage mock their sight?
Beyond those valleys still away,
A line of glittering sheen
Told where the blue Egean lay,

With its isles of living green.

The sea! the sea! The strong sound broke-
Their souls shook off the doubt;

And the startled rocks of the mountain woke
With the loud and thrilling shout.

There, there, beneath that same fair sky

Did the fires of their altars burn,
And the homes where love, with fading eye,
Kept watch for their return.

All tender thoughts, all feelings high,

All memories of the free,

Found utterance in that long, wild cry,
The sea! the sea! the sea!

As of meeting waves, the uplifted sound
Deepened in gathering might;
From rank to rank the shout profound
Swelled o'er the mountain height.

One only sound-the sea! the sea!
Filled all the echoing sky;
For ten thousand voices, high and free,
Blent in the pealing cry.

If such were the mighty burst

To an earthly home but given,
How shall the Christian hosts greet first
The glorious gates of heaven!