That I, the chief of all these men, should trust
For in the consecrated grove I slept, [thee;
When Wodan, yesterday, himself approached me;
A man in strange attire was led by him,
And Wodan spake to me: Behold, here is
The master, it behooves thee to obey !"
And lo! I recognize in thee the man
Whom in my dreams I saw, and now and aye
I'll follow thee, and yield to thy commands.

Win. Thus do I then baptize thee, in the

name

Of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;
And to remember still this holy hour,
Be Theodore thy name, the giv'n to God.

DUETT.

Theo. Holy flame, I feel thee glowing,
Burning now within my breast;
And, as faith in me is growing,
Visions come of heav'nly rest.

Win. Pour, oh Lord, Thy gracious blessing On this new disciple's head;

And may he, to Thee professing,
Ever by Thy grace be led.

Both. Hand in hand, then, let us travel
On the path of truth and light,
And the mysteries unravel,

Of His grace and of His might.

CHORUS.

Angels. Hail, all hail, ye blessed mortals!
Holy faith you have embraced;
Welcome to the glorious portals
Which by truth and love are graced.

Chris. Wander on, in Him believing,
In the Father, in the Son,
Who by blood our hopes retrieving,
Died, to lead us to His throne.

Both. The Lord is great, the Lord is good and
His reign's eternal, and forever new: [strong,
Then let us praise the Lord in joyous song,
And homage render Him, to whom 'tis due.

PART II.

CHORUS.

Hea. With sounds of the cymbal,

And loud-ringing song,

We praise him, our Wodan,

The mighty, the strong.
To Odin the father,
And Freya the good,
We willingly tender
Our off'rings and blood.
And Wodan's great offspring,
The thundering Thor,
For us he has pleasures
And treasures in store.
Then praise him with cymbals,
Then praise him with song,
For he is the mighty,
The thund'rer, the strong.

RECITATIVE.

Priest. Foes, alas! are quickly spreading
O'er this country. They are wedding
For their purpose craft to zeal;
Seeds of mischief they are strewing,
Plans of ruin they are brewing-
Wodan's wrath, alas! we feel.
Sacrifices let us offer

To the angry, mighty Thor,
That he may no longer suffer
Foes to tread our hapless shore.
Thor, thou strong and mighty god,
Here are off'rings, here is blood.

CHORUS.

Hea. With sounds of the cymbal And loud-ringing song, &c., &c.

RECITATIVE.

Gab. Up now, thy chosen one, up to thy work! Proclaim the word of peace, the word of Christ.

AIR.

The darkness that reigns over valley and grove,
Will soon be dispelled by the light

Of the Saviour, who thought, in His merciful love,
Of the people that wandered in night.
Proclaim, then, Apostle, His glorious word,
And deliver the weak in the name of the Lord.

RECITATIVE.

Theo. Oh, Winfried, friend and master, do not Thy precious life by entering the woods [risk Where Thor is thought to dwell; remain with us! But act thy will; thy pleasure shall be mine, With thee I'll brave the madden'd heathen's Salvation ever follows in thy path. [wrath: Win. Divine command has wisely sent me

hither,

Where superstition still demands its victims. Ha! human flesh is offered to their gods!

Desist, deluded ones! desist, oh priest ! This heathen altar I must thus destroy; Sink down before the Saviour's holy cross, Sink in the dust before Him who is Lord.

CHORUS.

Hea. Woe, woe, insulted is Thor! Woe, woe, defied is his power!

His altar destroyed, all before us is lying,

The ruins for vengeance are fearfully crying: Woe, woe, insulted is Thor!

Woe, woe, defied is his pow'r !

RECITATIVE.

Win. The glorious Lord, whose word I now pro-
Needs not such sacrifice; the holy cross [claim,
On which He died for man's salvation,
Demands of all believers naught but faith
And love, because the highest love is God.
Your Thor is but deceit, like all your gods;
Therefore this feeble hand destroys his throne
In Christ's great name, the Saviour and the Lord,
Who is alone the true eternal God.

Priest. Gods, why tarry ye so long
To avenge this heinous wrong?
And thou mighty, angry Thor,
Whom for vengeance we implore,
Why not send the lightning's flash,
Why not make the tempest roar,
That the trees in fury crash,
That the foes admit thy pow'r!

TERZETTO AND CHORUS.

Theo. With the golden sun descending, Falls on us the Holy Ghost, And our joyous songs are blending With the angels' singing host.

Win. All Thou hast to me confided, I performed, oh God, thro' Thee; Grant, then, that my steps be guided To a blest eternity.

Gab. Shout, rejoice, ye angel chorus, With the mortals, all rejoice;

Heav'n in glory is before us,

Sing His praise with gladsome voice.

Angels. Let us raise our joyous voices, Let us thank and pray the Lord! For the universe rejoices

In His ever holy word.

283

Ir was at the close of a fine day in September that I reached the village where my childhood and youth were past, and where I had not been seen for more years than I care to mention. Those who have read "The Old White MeetingHouse," or the reminiscences of a country congregation, will perhaps remember the village green and the church with its tall spire, and the little tavern that stood near it, and the grove of pinetrees that was my favorite haunt of Saturday af ternoons when there was no school: they may also remember some of the people whose names are there recorded, and who once walked over this green, and up the uncarpeted aisles of the old church, and worshiped devoutly in the temple hallowed by time and the presence of Him who inhabits eternity and its praises.

I have been wandering a score of years or more among the cities and the people of the world, and with a sort of pilgrim feeling now came back to the old hearth-stone and the hills that have been with me as a picture, wherever I have rested or traveled since I was a boy. It was curious that my first interview should be with the sexton, and my first visit in the old grave-yard. So it was. He was sitting on the stile over which he had just stepped from the yard, and wearied with his toil, for he had just finished another grave, and was now leaning forward on his spadė as he sat on the steps. I knew him at once, and approaching him, said, “Your name is Enoch, but I suppose you have forgotten me."

The old man looked up to me as he raised his head slowly from its rest, and answered,

"Yes, that's my name, but I don't remember you."

No, he did not know me. The old man was old when I was young, and he had now grown older he was more wrinkled, and crooked, and feeble, and it seemed strange to me that a man who had so long and so often been in the grave, should be out of it yet. I took a seat by the side of him on the other side of the fence, and looking at the tomb-stones within reading reach, began to call over the names of those whom I had left among the living.

"There are old Mr. and Mrs. Doubleby, and there's Mrs. Wilson, and here lies Clara Robin

son, and there is the grave of Archie McAuley, and, dear me, they must be all here. Is there anybody alive around here besides you, my old friend!"

"O yes, sir, but if you knew these folks you must have been gone a long time: I declare I can't make out who you may be."

“I suppose not,” said I, “but you remember Mr. Rodgers, who used to preach in the Old White Meeting-House?”

"I guess I do, and now I know you, his son Richard."

"Right for you, Enoch, the very same."

"And you are the boy that rode on the pulpit in prayer-time, and used to be up to all manner of mischief; you. Dick Rodgers; well, I would'nt have believed my old eyes."

“You are right, my good friend, the boy is back again, and has never forgotten these streets and this old burying-ground: to tell you the truth, Enoch, I always wanted to be buried here, and perhaps you may yet do me the favor."

"And that is just what I would not like to do: tell me where your father is, and is he ever coming here again. There's a sight of folks that would give more to see him than a show."

"He came with me, Enoch; you will see him along here presently, and next Sunday you will hear him preach."

"And that will do me more good than a little. I should like to hear his voice once more."

I walked into the yard. It was full. There seemed to be room for no more graves. Long rows of sleepers, whole families were resting side by side, and had filled up the vacant places that I remembered distinctly, so that I was quite sure there were more of my old friends under ground than above. Some of them I did long to see again; some of them I hope to see hereafter. What is that name? MARY LINDLEY! Yes, I recollect it now. Died December 23d,1881: so soon after we went away from the village: and she has been under this sod almost twenty years. Well, her heart has not ached half as often as it would if she had lived, and I believe her epitaph is true-" She sleeps in Jesus." Precious is the sleep of those who rest in his arms. And here is the grave of Charley Lee. He was a school