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Go to the dungeon's gloom to-night:
His wasted form, his aching head,
And all that now remains of him,

Lies, shuddering, on a felon's bed.

Ask you of all these woes the cause?
The festal board, the enticing bowl,
More often came, and reason fled,

And maddened passions spurned control.

Learn wisdom then. The frequent feast
Avoid; for there, with stealthy tread,
Temptation walks, to lure you on,

Till death, at last, the banquet spread.

And shun, oh, shun the enchanted cup!
Though now its draught like joy appears,

Ere long it will be fanned by sighs,

And sadly mixed with blood and tears.

ANONYMOUS.

LESSON CXCIV.

SABBATH MORNING.

THAT is not likely to be a profitable Sabbath which is commenced without some suitable recollection, some sincere desire to improve and to sanctify it. Our first waking thoughts

should be thus consecrated; should thus take possession of the mind, and pre-occupy it; otherwise those of a worldly kind will soon flow in; so that if we "do not our own works," we shall "think our own thoughts," which is as great a sin in the sight of God. The Sabbath dawns not on ourselves alone, but also on the millions of our favored land; inviting all to forget the six days, in which they have labored, and done their work, and to remember this, and keep it holy. Alas! to multitudes how vain the summons! It is melancholy to reflect on the thousands who welcome it only as a day of indulgence, idleness, or amusement. The Sabbath sun, which ought to arouse them betimes to its sacred duties, does but witness their longer indulgence.

How many, who "rise early and sit up late," on other

days, to attend diligently to their worldly affairs, when they awake and recollect that it is Sunday, resolve to have “ a little more sleep, a little more folding of the hands to sleep!" And when at last they arise, if they do not allow themselves to engage in the business of other days, they do but fill up the heavy hours in the meanest indulgences; in the preparation or enjoyment of a luxurious meal, in the most trifling occupations, or in absolute idleness. Others rise early, indeed, but it is only in order to lengthen their holiday. How many such are thus preparing to profane the Sabbath! How are the roads and fields, in almost every part of our beautiful country, disfigured by these unhallowed visitants! How are our streets thronged with Sabbath-breakers! The doors of the houses of God are thrown wide open, and they would be welcome as well as others. "Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?" In vain is the affectionate invitation! They pass on, resolved to have their pleasure at whatever price.

But there is a brighter view of Sunday morning, to which it is refreshing to turn. How many are there, who have said of it, "Early will I seek thee," and who, from their various and distant dwellings, have been, at the same hour, seeking, in their closets, a blessing on the welcome Sabbath! Their united supplications, uttered in various accents, and rising from the lowly cottage, the darksome hovel, as well as from abodes of comfort and affluence, ascend together, as an acceptable morning sacrifice to the throne of grace. Again: see from the streets and lanes, from the courts and alleys of our crowded cities, from the hamlets and villages, from the highways and hedges, what numbers of decent children now issue forth to their respective Sunday Schools! How many little feet are, at the same moment, pacing the streets on this blessed errand! What an innumerable multitude would they form, could the whole of them be assembled on some vast plain before our view!

The crowded streets of a large city, on a Sunday morning, may also afford another observation which should excite our liveliest gratitude. To see multitudes, of every different denomination, quietly proceeding, in open day, unmolested and unquestioned, to their respective places of worship, is a beau tiful evidence of the religious privileges we enjoy. Every

man may now sit under his own vine; and, whoever might wish to do it, none dares to make him afraid. And now the voice of prayer and of praise is heard in our land. What numberless voices unite in that universal chorus, which ascends, like a cloud of incense, to the heavens! This, then, is another animating reflection for Sunday morning. But there are many who are absent from these solemnities, not from choice, but necessity. Sunday morning has a peculiar aspect in a sick chamber. Those now on the bed of languishing, who have hitherto neglected their Sabbaths, view it with peculiar emotions, feel its value, and resolve, if they are restored to health, to improve these precious seasons in future; while the true christian, from his sick bed, hails its cheerful beams, and hopes for a Sabbath of rest and profit, even there.

Let us now look at our own hearts, and make a practical reflection. This Sabbath sun, that shines on the millions of the human race, beams also on us; "on me," let every reader say; and to me the question is, how shall I employ it? I may not be one of the open Sabbath-breakers of the land; but am I not one of the countless multitude, who, while in form they "keep a holy day," yet secretly say, "What a weariness it is! When will it be over?" If so, reader, no longer, we beseech you, waste your time in pitying or despising the poor Indian and Hindoo, who have no Sabbath. No longer censure the pleasure-taking Sabbath-breaker. Let your charity begin at home, and remember, that if your Sabbaths are misimproved, you are in a far more alarming situation than the untaught savage, "who knows not his Lord's will!" Recollect, also, that the period is hastening, when the angel of Death shall swear concerning you, that "Time," and its Sabbaths, “shall be no longer."

JANE TAYLOR.

LESSON CXCV.

THE SABBATH.

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The plowboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear: the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
-Calmness sits throned on you unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While, from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.

Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;

And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doomed

To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, imbosomed in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face, and upward, earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks

In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and, while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

J. GRAHAME.

LESSON CXCVI.

CONSOLATION OF RELIGION.

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Her only hope is in that sacred token

Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er;
She asks, nor wealth, nor pleasure, begs no more
Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Skeptics! would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night?

She lives in her affections; for the grave

Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Upon her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers; so, softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then, no more
She muses on the griefs of former days:

Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

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