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we behold the lord of war, and the destroyer of mankind, riding in triumph over the spoils of thousands who fell by his desolating sword; laying cities in flames; carrying misery and bloodshed through the earth; and pursued in his victorious career by the lamentations and curses of its inhabitants.

In Jesus we see the adorable Prince of peace, the friend and Savior of the world, riding meekly to the holy city, hailed with the acclamations and blessings of much people, whom he had rescued from sin and death, wiping the tears from all eyes, and healing every sickness and every disease.

And here the comparison must cease. The events that followed in our Savior's life are too august to be placed in competition with any mortal power, and can be comprehended only by minds habituated to the contemplation of heavenly objects. Let us consider the Passion of our Lord, and the magnificent scenes of his resurrection and ascension; and then ask in what part of all the history of Mahometanism, any parallel or resemblance can be found?

Let us, in imagination, hear and see the blessed Jesus, when he gives his apostles authority to go forth and baptize all nations, and preach in his name repentance and remission of sins; when he empowers them to cast out evil spirits, to speak with new tongues, and to work wonders; when he holds up to them the promise of the Comforter, and power from on high, and when, having blessed them, he ascends into heaven, where he is forever seated in glory on the right hand of God.

But chiefly what raises Christ and his religion far above all the fictions of Mahomet, is that awful alternative of hopes and fears, that looking for of judgment, which our Christian faith sets before us.

At that day when time, the great arbiter of truth and falsehood, shall bring to pass the accomplishment of the ages, and the Son of God shall make his enemies his foot stool, then shall the deluded followers of the great impostor, disappointed of the expected intercession of their prophet, stand trembling and dismayed at the approach of the glorified Messiah.

Then shall they say, yonder cometh in the clouds that Jesus, whose religion we labored to destroy, whose temples we profaned, whose servants and followers we cruelly oppressed! Behold he cometh: but no longer the humble son of Mary, no longer a mere mortal prophet, the equal of Abraham and of Moses, as that deceiver taught us; but

the everlasting Son of the everlasting Father! the Judge of mankind! the Sovereign of angels! the Lord of all things both in earth and heaven!


Valley of Jehoshaphat.—CHATEAUBRIAND.

THE valley of Jehoshaphat has in all ages served as the burying place to Jerusalem; you meet there, side by side, monuments of the most distant times, and of the present century. The Jews still come there to die, from the corners of the earth. A stranger sells to them, for almost its weight in gold, the land which contains the bones of their fathers.

Solomon planted that valley; the shadow of the temple by which it was overhung-the torrent, called after grief, which traversed it-the Psalms which David there composed-the lamentations of Jeremiah which its rocks reechood, rendered it the fitting abode of the tomb. Christ commenced his Passion in the same place; that innocent David there shed, for our sins, tears which the guilty David let fall for his own transgressions. Few names awaken in our minds recollections so solemn, as the valley of Jehoshaphat.

The aspect of the celebrated valley is desolate; the western side is bounded by a ridge of lofty rocks which support the walls of Jerusalem, above which the towers of Jerusalem appear. The eastern side is formed by the Mount of Olives, and another eminence called the Mount of Scandal, from the idolatry of Solomon.

These two mountains which adjoin each other, are almost bare, and of a red and sombre hue; on their desert side you see here and there some black and withered vineyards, some wild olives, some ploughed land covered with hyssop, and a few ruined chapels. At the bottom of the valley, you perceive a torrent, traversed by a single arch, which appears of great antiquity. The stones of the Jewish cemetery appear like a mass of ruins at the foot of the Mountain of Scandal, under the village of Siloam. You can hardly distinguish the buildings of the village, from the ruins with which they are surrounded.

Three ancient monuments are particularly conspicuous, those of Zachariah, Jehoshaphat and Absalom. The sadness

of Jerusalem from which no smoke ascends, and in which no sound is to be heard; the solitude of the surrounding mountains, where not a living creature is to be seen; the disorder of these tombs, ruined, ransacked, and half exposed to view, would almost induce one to believe that the last trump had been heard, and that the dead were about to rise in the valley of Jehoshaphat.


A Mother's Death.-CRABBE.


THEN died lamented, in the strength of life,
A valued Mother and a faithful Wife;
Called not away, when time had loosed each hold
On the fond heart, and each desire grew
But when to all that knit us to our kind,
She felt fast bound, as charity can bind;-
Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care,
The drooping spirit for its fate prepare;
And, each affection failing, leaves the heart
Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart;—
But ALL her ties the strong invader broke,
In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke:
Sudden and swift the eager pest came on,
And terror grew, till every hope was gone:
Still those around appeared for hope to seek!
But viewed the sick and were afraid to speak.

Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead:—
When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed—
My part began; a crowd drew near the place,
Awe in each eye, alarm in every face:

So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind,
That fear, with pity, mingled in each mind;

Friends with the husband came, their griefs to blend;
For good-man Frankford was to all a friend.
The last-born boy they held above the bier,
He knew not grief, but cries expressed his fear;
Each different age and sex revealed its pain,
In now a louder, now a lower strain;

While the meek father, listening to their tones

Swelled the full cadence of the grief by groans.
The elder sister strove her pangs to hide,
And soothing words to younger minds applied:
Be still, be patient,' oft she strove to say;
But failed as oft, and weeping turned away.

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
The village-lads stood melancholy still;
And idle children, wandering to-and-fro,
As nature guided, took the tone of wo.

Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, In every place--where she, no more was found; The seat at table she was wont to fill;

The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still;
The garden walks, a labor all her own;
The lattice bower with trailing shrubs o'ergrown;
The Sunday-pew, she filled with all her race;
Each place of her's was now a sacred place,
That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes,
Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise.


A Voice from the Wine Press.-MISS GOULD.

'T was for this they reared the vine,
Fostered every leaf and shoot,

Loved to see its tendrils twine,

And cherished it from branch to root!
'T was for this, that from the blast
It was screened and taught to run,

That its fruit might ripen fast,
O'er the trellis, to the sun.

And for this they rudely tore
Every cluster from the stem;
'Twas to crush us till we pour
Out our very blood for them!
Well, though we are tortured thus,
Still our essence shall endure,
Vengeance they shall find, with us,
May be slow, but will be sure.

And the longer we are pent
From the air and cheering light,
Greater, when they give us vent,
For our rest shall be our might.
And our spirits, they shall see,
Can assume a thousand shapes;
These are words of verity,

Uttered by the dying grapes.

Many a stately form shall reel,
When our power is felt within;
Many a foolish tongue reveal
What the recent draught has been;
Many a thoughtless, yielding youth,
With his promise all in bloom,
Go from paths of peace and truth
To an early, shameful tomb.

We the purse will oft unclasp,

All its golden treasure take,
And, the husband in our grasp,

Leave the wife with heart to break.
While his babes are pinched with cold,
We will bind him to the bowl,
Till his features we behold
Glowing like a living coal.

We will bid the gown-man put
To his lip a glass or two,
Then, we 'll stab him in the foot,
Till it oversteps the shoe.
And we 'll swell the doctor's bill,
While he parries us in vain;
He may cure, but we will kill

Till our thousands we have slain.

and health,

When we 've drowned their peace
Strength and hopes within the bowl,
More we 'll ask than life or wealth,
We'll require the very soul!
Ye, who from our blood are free,
Take the charge we give you now;

Taste not, till ye wait and see
If the grapes forget their vow.

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