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and the tide rise together, that I may go out!' By this time the sun and the tide were just rising together; the first streaks of the one, fell on the first swell of the other. He was then laid on his own little bed close to the open window. The water became each moment shallower. He looked intently forward at the now nearing shore, murmured some words which I could not catch, though they were heard by the waiting band of shining ones,' His eyes were singling out from the brilliant throng the Chief among ten thousand, and the altogether lovely.' The inspiration grew fainter and fainter, and fainter still, until, without a sigh, with the last gentle breath, he went out, and awoke up in the bosom of the Lord! 'He is gone!' said my friend. I looked incredulously at the still open eyes, but we could not follow him further, however. Our voices went up after him, in the shining track, to the realms of life, and light, and joy; praising and blessing God! No teardrop bedimmed our longing eyes; no sob, no sigh mingled with the music of the harpers, harping with their harps !' The hearing of a sigh, the falling of a tear, had ill assisted the deep harmonies which had ravished the enraptured ear of my ransomed one. His Redeemer, with that melodious voice, as the sound of many waters,' had poured into the depths of his spirit the glad welcome,' Come, thou blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for thee, from the foundation of the world!'-' And I looked, and lo, a Lamb stood on the Mount Sion, and with him an hundred and forty and four thousand, having his Father's name written in their foreheads.'' These are they which follow the Lamb, whithersoever he goeth. These were redeemed from among men, being the first fruits unto God and to the Lamb. And in their mouth was found no guile: for they are without fault before the throne of God.'"

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Happy, happy mother, and thrice happy little one! We sorrow not as those without hope; but rather hope as those without sorrow. Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!

Erratum.

We regret that through a typographical error, the date of little Albert's birth was incorrectly given at page 232. As the narrative shews, it should have been 1839, instead of 1829.

POETRY.

A CHRISTIAN SLAVE.

(By J. G. Whittier.)

"A Christian-going-gone!”

Who bids for God's own image? for His grace,
Which that poor victim of the market-place
Hath, in her suffering, won?

Saviour! Can such things be?

Hast Thou not said, that whatsoe'er is done
Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one,
Is even done to thee?

In that sad victim, then,

Child of thy pitying love, I see Thee stand,
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!

A Christian up for sale!

Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame ;
Her patience shall not fail!

A heathen land might deal

Back on your heads the gather'd wrong of years;
But her low broken prayers and nightly tears,

Ye neither heed nor feel.

Con well thy lesson o'er,

Thou prudent teacher; tell the toiling slave
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
The outcast poor;

But wisely shut the ray

Of God's free gospel from the simple heart,
And to her darken'd mind alone impart

One stern command - Obey.

In a recent work is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommends the woman on the stand as a good Christian!

So shalt thou deftly raise

The market-price of human flesh and while
On thee, the pamper'd guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.

Grave reverend men shall tell

From northern pulpits how Thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom, first and best
Thy poor disciples sell.

Oh shame! The Moslem thrall,
Who with his master to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla, feels
His fetters break and fall.

Cheers for the turban'd Bey

Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeon open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day.

But our poor slave in vain

Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes-
Its rites will only swell his market-price,

And rivet on his chain.

God of all right! how long

Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to thee the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?

Oh! from the fields of cane,

From the low rice-swamps, from the trader's cell,
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain,—

Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to heaven that agonizing cry,
Filling the arches of the hollow sky-
"How long! Oh, Lord, how long!

-Hogg's Weekly Instructor.

CHRISTIAN MOURNERS COMFORTED.

Children of the realm of light,

Wandering through life's stormy night,
In the world's wide desert, strangers,
Onward press 'mid toils and dangers;
Lift to heaven the drooping eye,
Jesus is for ever nigh.

Captive! in the dungeon low,
Cease that thrilling cry of woe;
What, though sunbeams never dwell
In thy dark and lonely cell,
Rays of glory, beams divine,
On thine inmost soul may shine.

Wanderer! on the billowy foam,
Borne from kindred, friends, and home;
What, though on the mighty deep
Gathering tempests round thee sweep,
Rainbow-hues of light divine,

On the troubled breakers shine.

Mourner lift thine aching head,
Weep not o'er thine early dead;
What, though tones to memory dear
Thrill not on thy listening ear,
He whose love abideth ever
Shall forsake and leave thee never.

Sufferer! on thy couch of woe,
Where no vernal breezes blow,
What, though now the Sabbath bell

Sound to thee like parting knell,

Though thy willing feet no more,

Tread the paths so loved before.

What though night's all-covering wing,
Thee no healing slumber bring,

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