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old man

Hateth he thee, forgive! For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter
Of the Eternal's language ;-on earth it is called Forgiveness !
Knowest thou Him, who forgave; who with crown of thorns round

his temples; Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost thou

know him? Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example; Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings; Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother.” Weeping, he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's en

closure. Kneeling, he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them. The needful questions he asked: and together answered the

children, Yes !” with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due

supplications, Read the form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and

anthem. Th’ old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his

eyelids, Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical

symbols. 0! then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of mid-day, Clearer looked in at the windows; and all the trees in the church

yard Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves

'gan to shiver. But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it), there ran a Tremour of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and

above it Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; there saw they Radiant in glory, the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings; and angels from

gold clouds Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. Closed was the Teacher's task; and with heaven in their hearts

and their faces, Up rose the children all; and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, Downward to kiss that reverend hand; but all of them pressed he Moved to his bosom; and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of

blessings, Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses.

From the Swedish, by LONGFELLOW.-Adap.

SCIENCE AND RELIGION. Undoubtedly the most precious of man's gifts—invaluable and indispensable as they all are—is revealed religion. In comparison with this, the pleasures and the treasures of the world, and even the endowments of his own nature, sink into insignificance. Without religion, he would stand on the earth a forlorn and desolate being, aimless and hopeless. The very faculties which now contribute so largely to his happiness—which invest him, in fact, almost with the attributes of a God-his reason, his imagination, and his habit and power of reflection, would tend to aggracate his despair. He would behold himself made but to perish, after enduring a life which, in its best aspect, could be regarded only as a burden. Ignorant of his origin, his nature, and his destination, this wise and elevated being

would be confounded by his own superiority, and envy the worm crawling at his feet. Å spectacle more harrowing, or more awful, it would be difficult to conceive. Thought, now so fruitful of enjoyment, would then become torture; a sullen gloom would settle on his mind; and, flying from reflection as from a tormentor, he would, if still tolerating life, sink into a savage state, but little removed from the beasts of the forest.

Religion is thus made one of the most essential conditions of our being; and Nature, to use a philosophical term, has not left it unprovided. Apart from Revelation, the mind itself is impressed, at a very early period of its development, with an intuitive consciousness of a superior Power-a Deity, or a fellowship of Deities, to whom it is subject and accountable. This supplies at once á restraint, a support, and a source of elevation; and so deeply rooted in man's heart is the instinctive conviction of a Presiding Intelligence, that all the inventions of superstition, accumulating through successive ages, till scarcely a vestige of reason or understanding remained, have never completely obscured it. A vague sense of an immortal destiny, and of a supreme, overruling Being, has clung to the benighted mind in the darkest night of its faculties, in its most desperate and degraded state, raising it up from that slough of despond in which it must otherwise have been immersed. Man has thus, under circumstances of the most depressing tendency, become reconciled to his situation, supported in his reverses, comforted in his sorrows, and ennobled in his duties and aspirations.

If such is the effect produced by mere natural religion, it must be immeasurably enlarged by a faith emanating directly from God, and disseminated by Revelation. Enlightened by such a communion, man becomes immediately a new creature, inspired by divine sensibilities. His mysterious origin, hitherto so distracting a problem, is unravelled and explained; his mission is defined, and he receives an assurance of perpetual life. Light streams *upon his mind from the Bible, and virtue and self-respect kindle in his heart. His feelings, impulses and passions, so long ungoverned and ungovernable, learn, with but little effort, the sacred lessons and beautiful restraints of morality; and readily submit to their wholesome discipline. Ferocity, revenge, sensuality, and selfishness, the propensities developed by indulgence, are in great measure abandoned; and the redeemed man is happy, beyond what can be expressed by words, in the assiduous cultivation of forbearance, continence, charity, forgiveness of injuries, and selfdenial. He is baptized in knowledge, as well as in faith, and the expansion of his heart induces a corresponding advancement of intellect. He no longer gropes in the dark, embarrassed alike by the past and the present; but walks erect and free, assured of the overruling care of a tutelary Providence. The earth, basking in this hallowed light, is no more a gloomy prison, but the threshold of Paradise; and man now succeeds to his appointed inheritance, the empire of Creation.

But man has another guide to the Creator, and key to the mysteries of his being, in the attainments and experiences of his own mind, or what is commonly denominated Science. Science is the witness to Religion—the natural missionary of Faith. It shows us the beauty, the order, and the perfect harmony of the Creation; that it cannot be a thing of chance; but is, in every aspect, infallibly the result of the nicest calculation, directed by Supreme Wisdom. While unveiling the lowest depths, our winged tutor carries us to the highest heavens; and, always reverting from effect to cause, traces in every quarter the hand of the same Architect. Science, in short, is an intellectual sun, whose nightdispelling beams fly farther than the trackless comet, and unfold to view the whole breadth of the universe. It is a mighty Apostle, who vindicates his ministry by signs and wonders, and is ever leading us to look from nature up to nature's God.

It must not be supposed, however, that Science, so considered, is a spontaneous acquirement. On the contrary, it is the child of Time, matured slowly in the revolving ages. It glimmers through the darkness of space, a faint and far-off beacon, to which man gropes his way, with slow and uncertain steps, over many a tortuous path, beset with delusive phantasms. It is a stupendous mountain, whose steps successively open to view new objects; but whose cloud-capped summit, whence we may scan the whole horizon, can only be attained in thousands of years. Man sought in the mine of nature for its gems of knowledge, but laboured at first without judgment and without light. His perseverance, however, was destined to achieve most valuable and sublime results. Gradually traces of light appeared; precious facts, full of significance, were ascertained and hoarded; and every new phenomenon was carefully registered. Then, indeed, men began to build a tower whose top would reach unto the heavens-a tower of universal harmony and concord.-S. W. FULLOM.-Adap.

Let Knowledge grow from more to more,

But more of Reverence in us dwell,
That soul and mind according still,

May make one music as before. TENNYSON.

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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem,

Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;

Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

N

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose,

The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away

a glory from the earth. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting

And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;
The youth, who daily farther from the East

Must travel, still is nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away
And fade into the light of common day.

Gladly would I raise
The song of thanks and praise
For all life's first affections
And shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake

To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor man, nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us bither,

Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

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