was swallowed up in victory. She died, looking to the cross. This was her only refuge and hope. As I sat by the bed of death, and watched the dread struggle with the last foe, I contemplated with peculiar thankfulness the connection now existing between Orissa and heaven. It is a spot dear to angels, because it contains heirs of salvation to whom they are ministering spirits. It was not thus when Christ was not known; but the blood of the cross reconciles things on earth and things in heaven, which before were at enmity. At the close of the evening service, I went from the chapel to the burial ground, and in committing her dust to the earth, directed the mourners to Him who said, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." Sebo-Ma appeared a very happy christian, and the pious reader may admire the grace of God as displayed to her. For nearly half a century she was involved in all the gloom of pagan night; then called by heavenly grace to know the blessed Jesus as her Saviour; and after walking for eighteen years in the way of holiness has now, we have an assured hope, been admitted to that peaceful home, of which the Saviour said in words of surpassing and infinite sweetness, "I go to prepare a place for you." May such trophies of the grace of Christ be here and everywhere multiplied a thousand-fold!

AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.

BY THE LATE BISHOP HEBER.

OUR task is done! on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;

And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail, and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride.

Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslems' savoury supper steams,

While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
Come walk with me the jungle through;

If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off, in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds his solitude;

Nor taught by secret charm to shun
The thunders of the English gun;
A dreadful guest, but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake:
Child of the sun! he loves to lie
'Mid Nature's embers parch'd and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade;
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe,
Fit warder at the gate of death!
Come on! Yet pause! behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom,
Glow's the geranium's scarlet bloom,*
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower;
The ceiba's crimson pomp display'd
O'er the broad plaintain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly blade;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair,
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendent train and rushing wings,
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
And he the bird of hundred dyes,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade so green a sod,
Our English maidens never trod;
Yet who in Indian bower has stood,

But thought on England's "good green wood?"
And blest beneath the palmy shade,

Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,

And breath'd a prayer, (how oft in vain!)

To gaze upon her oaks again!

A truce to thought! the jackal's cry

Resounds like sylvan revelry;

And through the trees, yon failing ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.

A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence is called the Indian Geranium.

Yet mark! as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above,

The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring,
The darkness of the copse exploring;
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent, and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass in soften'd hum,
Along the breezy valleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum.
Still as we pass, from bush and briar,
The shrill cigala strikes his lyre;
And, what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
I know that soul-entrancing swell!
It is it must be-Philomel!

Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,-
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;

Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But O! with thankful hearts confess,
Ev'n here there may be happiness;
And HE, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth, his hope of heaven!

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

AN ALLEGORY.

A FEW mornings ago, as I was taking a walk on an eminence which commands a view of the Forth, with the vessels sailing along, I sat down, and taking out my Bible, opened by accident at a place in the book of Job, ix. 26, "Now my days are passed away as the swift ships." Shutting the book I fell a musing on this affecting comparison. I fancied myself on the bank of a river or sea, the

opposite side of which was hid from view, being involved in clouds of mist. On the shore stood a multitude, which no man could number, waiting for passage. I saw a great many ships taking in passengers, and several persons going about in the garb of pilots, offering their service. Being ignorant, and curious to know what all these things meant, I applied to a grave old man, who stood by, giving instructions to the departing passengers. His name, I remember, was the Genius of Human Life. My son," said he, “you stand on the banks of the stream of Time. All these people are bound for Eternity, that 'undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' The country is very large, and divided into two parts; the one is called the Land of Glory, the other the Kingdom of Darkness. The names of these in the garb of pilots are Religion, Virtue, Pleasure. They who are so wise as to choose Religion for their guide, have a safe, though frequently a rough passage; they are at last landed in the happy climes where sighing and sorrow for ever flee away: they have likewise a secondary director, Virtue. But there is a spurious Virtue who pretends to govern by himself; but the wretches who trust to him, as well as those who have Pleasure for their pilot, are either shipwrecked, or are cast on the Kingdom of Darkness. But the vessel in which you must embark approaches; you must begone. Remember what depends upon your conduct." No sooner had he left me than I found myself surrounded by those pilots I mentioned before. Immediately I forgot all that the old man said to me, and, seduced by the fair promises of Pleasure, chose him for my director. We weighed anchor with a fair gale, the sky serene, the sea calm. Innumerable little isles lifted their green heads around us, covered with trees in full blossom. Dissolved in stupid mirth, we were carried on, regardless of the past, of the future unmindful. On a sudden the sky was darkened, the winds roared, the sea raged, red rose the sand from the bottom of the troubled deep. The angel of the waters lifted up his voice. At that instant a strong ship passed by; I saw Religion at the helm. "Come out from among them," he cried. I and a few others threw ourselves into his ship. The wretches we left were now tost on the swelling deep. The waters on every side poured through the riven vessel. They cursed the Lord; when lo! a fiend rose from the deep, and, in a voice like distant thunder, thus spoke: “I am Abaddon, the first born of death; ye are my prey, open thou abyss to receive them." As he thus spoke they sunk, and the waves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we heard a voice saying, "Fear not, I am

with you. When you pass through the waters, they shall not overflow you." Our hearts were filled with joy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one from the top of the mast cried out, " Courage, my friends, I see the fair haven!" Our CAPTAIN encouraged us; Hope swelled our sails; and presently we had an abundant entrance into the fair haven

"The sea for ever calm, the sky for ever bright."

And now awaking from my reverie I found myself singing—
"I send the joys of earth away;
Away, ye tempters of the mind!
False as the smooth, deceitful sea,
And empty as the whistling wind.

Your streams were floating me along
Down to the gulf of black despair;
And whilst I listened to your song,
Your streams had e'en conveyed me there.

Lord, I adore thy matchless grace,

That warned me of that dark abyss,

That drew me from those treacherous seas

And bid me seek superior bliss.

Now to the shining realms above

I stretch my hands, and glance mine eyes;

O for the pinions of a dove,

To bear me to the upper skies!

There, from the bosom of my God,
Oceans of endless pleasures roll;

There would I fix my last abode,

And drown the sorrows of my soul."

LETTER TO A YOUNG CANDIDATE.

In your letter, you express your intention of putting on Christ by baptism. I am glad you have come to this resolve. Your first and chief care should be, ere you take this solemn step, to ascertain whether you love Christ or not. Love to Christ is essential to al cheerful and acceptable obedience, this must be at the foundation of all our religious performances; and if we are not actuated by a principle of supreme love to Jesus, he will indignantly ask,—“ Who hath required this at your hand?" But do you ask, How shall I know whether I love Christ or not? If you love, you think of him frequently and affectionately,-you embrace every opportunity to hold converse with him in his house and worship; you dwell on