was found to be yet living, though in a most precarious condition; as indeed was his friend, whose feeble frame had hardly suffered less from the cold and exposure.

For many weeks both lay at the inn, almost hovering between life and death; and there was no one so watchful over them, or so good a nurse, as Joe, who, better accustomed to rough weather, was soon restored to his usual vigour.

But God was pleased to restore both the young men, and to bless to them that fearful night; for years after they both owned that their first serious impression of life's uncertainty, and the awfulness of appearing unprepared before God, had been indelibly stamped upon them by that means. They have frequently been since to visit Joe, who is now a very old and infirm man, not far from the grave, and who speaks of both as if they were almost his own children. He still lives in his tiny old house, with his little Lucy, who is still “ Little Lucy" in name and in fact; nor do I know what the villagers, or any of us will do when Joe is gone; for none assuredly can take his place among us.

THE LOST DAY,

Mrs. Lydia H. SIGOURNEY.

Lost! lost! lost !

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,

And graved in paradise :
Set round with three times eight

Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,

All changeful as the light.

Lost—where the thoughtless throng

In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth Folly's song,

Leaving a sting behind :
Yet to my hand 'twas given

A golden harp to buy,
Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy. .
Lost ! lost! lost !

I feel all search is vain;
That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again :
I offer no reward-

For till these heart-strings sever,
I know that Heaven-entrusted gift

Is reft away for ever.
But when the sea and land .

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead,
And when of scathe and loss

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,

What shall it answer there?

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

AMELIA B. Welby. 0, Thou who flingst so fair a robe

Of clouds around the hills untrod Those mountain-pillars of the globe

Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies,

Their fleecy wings are lightly furld, As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world;

There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, O God of love, art there.

The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet

Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet

At every step, thy smiles, O GOD!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,

They bloom in palace-hall, or cot, —
Give me, O Lord, a heart like theirs,

Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells
In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air
'Tis thine, O God! for Thou art there.

Hark! from yon casement, low and dim,

What sounds are these that fill the breeze? It is the peasant's evening hymn

Arrests the fisher on the seas; The old man leans his silver hairs

Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll ?
What melts the manhood from his soul ?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God, art with him there.

The birds among the summer blooms

Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love, When, trembling on uplifted plumes,

They leave the earth and soar above; We hear their sweet, familiar airs

Where'er a sunny spot is found : How lovely is a life like theirs,

Diffusing sweetness all around !

From elime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach Thy throne in grateful prayer.

The stars—those floating isles of light,

Round which the clouds unfurl their sails, Pure as a woman's robe of white

That trembles round the form it veils,—
They touch the heart as with a spell,

Yet set the soaring fancy free;
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell

Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair-
They speak of Thee, for Thou art there.

The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt,

May strive to cast Thee from its thought; But who can shut Thy presence out,

Thou mighty Guest that com’st unsought! In spite of all our cold resolves,

Magnetic-like, where'er we be,
Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves,

And points, all trembling, up to Thee.
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest-
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou, the living God, art there.

Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,

Where soaring fancy oft hath been, . There is a land where Thou hast said

The pure in heart shall enter in; There, in those realms so calmly bright,

How many a loved and gentle one Bathe their soft plumes in living light,

That sparkles from thy radiant throne !

There, souls once soft and sad as ours
Look up and sing, mid fadeless flowers;
They dream no more of grief and care,
For Thou, the God of peace, art there.

THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.

PROFESSOR Wilson. For six years' Sabbaths, I had seen the Elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit ;-and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance, during sermon, psalm, and prayer, I met the pastor, going to pray by his death-bed:—and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death.

And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and beauty ;-and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man, who, we understood, was now lying on his death-bed. “They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is,” said the minister, looking tenderly on the boy ; “but love makes the young heart bold;—and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."

As we slowly approached the cottage through a deep snowdrift, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared ; and then their mother showed herself in their stead;