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woman, with mournful blue eyes, and temples startlingly transparent. Laying her hand softly upon Harry's head, she stooped and kissed his forehead.

The rock was touched, and the waters gushed forth. “Dear mother!" said the weeping boy

Why didn't you tell your father that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate ?"

“Did he give me a chance ?” said Harry, springing to his feet, with a flashing eye. “Didn't he twice bid me be silent, when I tried to explain ? Mother, he's a tyrant to you and to me!"

“ Harry, he's my husband and your father!"

" Yes, and I'm sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words ? Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, mother! It's too bad, I say! He's a tyrant, mother !' said the boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth ; "and if it were not for you, I would have been leagues off long ago. And there's Nellie, too, poor sick child! What good will all her medicine do her ? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his footsteps. I say 'tis brutal, mother.”

“ Harry”—and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy's lips—"for my sake "

“Well, 'tis only for your sake-yours and poor Nellie's-or I should be on the sea somewhere-anywhere but here."

Late that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy's bedside before retiring to rest. “God be thanked, he sleeps !" she murmured, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bedside, she prayed for patience and wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the heavy cross under which her steps were faltering; and then she prayed for her husband.

"No, no, not that !” said Harry, starting from his pillow, and throwing his arms about her neck. “I can forgive him what he has done to me, but I will never forgive him what he has made you suffer. Don't pray for him,—at least, don't let me hear it !"

Mary Lee was too wise to expostulate. She knew her boy was spirit sore, under the sense of recent injustice; so she lay down beside him, and resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated in a low, sweet voice, the story of the crucifixion. “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do!” fell upon his troubled ear. He yielded to the holy spell.

“I will!” he sobbed. "Mother, you are an angel; and if ever I get to heaven, it will be your hand that has led me there."

There was hurrying to and fro in Robert Lee's house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angry blows on that young head!

The passionate father's repentance came too late, came with the word that his boy must die.

"Be kind to her !” said Harry, as his head dropped on his mother's shoulder.

It was a dearly-bought lesson! Beside that lifeless corpse Robert Lee renewed his marriage vow: and now when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the hasty word springs to his lip, the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angelvoice whispers, “ Peace, be still !"

THE MOTHER.

CHARLES SWAIN.

"Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share,
From Reason's dawn, each pleasure and each care."

ROGERS.

A SOFTENING thought of other years,

A feeling link'd to hours
When Life was all too bright for tears,

And Hope sang, wreath'd with flowers !

A memory of affections fled

Of voices-heard no more ! Stirred in my spirit when I read

That name of fondness o'er! Oh, mother !-in that early word

What loves and joys combine; What hopes—too oft, alas !-deferred ;

What vigils—griefs—are thine!-
Yet, never, till the hour we roam-

By worldly thralls opprest,
Learn we to prize that truest home

A watchful mother's breast !
The thousand prayers at midnight pour'd

Beside our couch of woes; The wasting weariness endured

To soften our repose ! -
Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue-

Nor toils relaxed thy care :-
How, mother, is thy heart so strong

To pity and forbear ?
What filial fondness e'er repaid

Or could repay the past !
Alas! for gratitude decay'd!

Regrets — that rarely last !-
'Tis only when the dust is thrown

Thy lifeless bosom o'er;
We muse upon thy kindness shown-

And wish we'd loved thee more! 'Tis only when thy lips are cold

We mourn with late regret, 'Mid myriad memories of old

The days for ever set!
And not an act-nor look-nor thought-

Against thy meek control,
But with a sad remembrance fraught

Wakes anguish in the soul !

On every land—in every clime

True to her sacred cause,
Fillid by that effluence sublime

From which her strength she draws,
Still is the mother's heart the same-

The mother's lot as tried :
Then, oh! may nations guard that name
With filial power and pride !

(By permission of the Author.)

THE OMNIPOTENCE OF GOD.

ANONYMOUS.

In the first place, the immense quantity of matter contained in the universe, presents a most striking display of Almighty power.

In endeavouring to form a definite notion on this subject, the mind is bewildered in its conceptions, and is at a loss where to begin or to end its excursions. In order to form something approximating to a well-defined idea, we must pursue a train of thought commencing with those magnitudes which the mind can easily grasp, proceeding through all the intermediate gradations of magnitude, and fixing the attention on every portion of the chain, till we arrive at the object or magnitude of which we wish to form a conception. We must endeavour, in the first place, to form a conception of the bulk of the world in which we dwell, which, though only a point in comparison of the whole material universe, is, in reality, a most astonishing magnitude, which the mind cannot grasp, without a laborious effort. We can form some definite idea of those protuberant masses we denominate hills, which rise above the surface of our plains; but were we transported to the mountain scenery of Switzerland, to the stupendous range of the Andes in South America, or to the Himalayan mountains in India, where masses of earth and rocks, in every variety of shape, extend several hundreds of miles in different directions, and rear their projecting summits beyond the region of the clouds—we should find some difficulty in forming an adequate conception of the objects of our contemplation. For (to use the words of one who had been a spectator of such scenes), “Amidst those trackless regions of intense silence and solitude, we cannot contemplate, but with feelings of awe and admiration, the enormous masses of variegated matter which lie around, beneath, and above us. The mind labours, as it were, to form a definite idea of those objects of oppressive grandeur, and feels unable to grasp the august objects which compose the surrounding scene.” But what are all these mountainous masses, however variegated and sublime, when compared with the bulk of the whole earth? Were they hurled from their bases, and precipitated into the vast Pacific Ocean, they would all disappear in a moment, except perhaps a few projecting tops, which, like a number of small islands, might be seen rising a few fathoms above the surface of the waters.

The earth is a globe, whose diameter is nearly 8000 miles, and its circumference about 25,000, and consequently, its surface contains nearly two hundred millions of square miles—a magnitude too great for the mind to take in at one conception. In order to form a tolerable conception of the whole, we must endeavour to take a leisurely survey of its different parts. Were we to take our station on the top of a mountain, of a moderate size, and survey the surrounding landscape, we should perceive an extent of view stretching forty miles in every direction, forming a circle eighty miles in diameter, and 250 in circumference, and comprehending an area of 5000 square miles. In such a situation, the terrestrial scene around and beneath us, consisting of hills and plains, towns and

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