There is not room for Death,.

Nor atom that his might could render void:

Thou

THOU art Being and Breath,

And what THOU art may never be destroyed.

POEMS BY ACTON BELL.

In looking over my sister Anne's papers, I find mournful evidence that religious feeling had been to her but too much like what it was to Cowper; I mean, of course, in a far milder form. Without rendering her a prey to those horrors that defy concealment, it subdued her mood and bearing to a perpetual pensiveness: the pillar of a cloud glided constantly before her eyes: she ever waited at the foot of a secret Sinai, listening in her heart to the voice of a trumpet sounding long and waxing louder. Some, perhaps, would rejoice over these tokens of sincere though sorrowing piety in a deceased relative; I own, to me they seem sad, as if her whole innocent life had been passed under the martyrdom of an unconfessed physical pain: their effect, indeed, would be too distressing, were it not combated by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome; this pomp of terrors broke up, and, passing away, left her dying hour unclouded. Her belief in God did not then bring to her dread, as of a stern Judge, but hope, as in a Creator

and Saviour: and no faltering hope was it, but a sure and stedfast conviction; on which, in the rude passage from Time to Eternity, she threw the weight of her human weakness, and by which she was enabled to bear what was to be borne, patiently serenely-victoriously.

How can I rouse my sinking soul

From such a lethargy?

How can I break these iron chains

And set my spirit free?

There have been times when I have mourned

In anguish o'er the past,

And raised my suppliant hands on high,

While tears fell thick and fast;

And prayed to have my sins forgiven,
With such a fervent zeal,

An earnest grief, a strong desire
As now I cannot feel.

And I have felt so full of love,

So strong in spirit then,
As if my heart would never cool,
Or wander back again.

And yet, alas! how many times
My feet have gone astray!
How oft have I forgot my God!

How greatly fallen away!

My sins increase

my love grows cold,

And Hope within me dies:

Even Faith itself is wavering now;

Oh, how shall I arise?

I cannot weep, but I can pray,
Then let me not despair:
Lord Jesus, save me, lest I die!
Christ, hear my humble prayer!

A PRAYER.

My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be Thine;
My feeble faith still clings to Thee,

Not only for the Past I grieve,

The Future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.

I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great,
But strength and love to Thee belong;
Oh, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee;

Oh, take the heart I cannot give!
Do Thou my Strength - my Saviour be,
And make me to Thy glory live.

IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY IN FEBRUARY.

BLESSED be Thou for all the joy

My soul has felt to-day!

Oh, let its memory stay with me,
And never pass away!