One brief glance, he could not bear it,
Down he bent in blank distress.

"Weep not, father, darling father,
Yes, the pain grows very bad;
Long with you I may not linger;
Lonely you will feel and sad.
Father, I forgive the people-

Do you think they'll catch the men?
Sure I am, I never wronged them,
Tell them, father, tell them then-
Kiss me, father, I am dying;

Oh, so dark now bright it seems;
Listen, father, are they singing?
Angels, like I've seen in dreams?"

Tender words, how deep they cut him,
One long kiss, he left the bed,
Daylight, life, and love seemed dying;
From the building as he fled

Two strong men his progress hindered;
Vain to make attempt at flight;
Quickly to the station hurried,

Walls and doors shut out the light.
Baffled, thwarted, captured, prisoned,
As upon him close the doors,
Freed from pain, his daughter's spirit,
Angel-guarded, heavenward soars.

THE BIBLE.-T. DEWITT TALMAGE.

The Bible is fragrant with the breath of new-mown grass, and Sharon Rose, and the blossom of the "apple tree among the trees of the wood." You hear in it the murmur of bees, and the dash of waters, and howl of fierce Euroclydon. You see in it the glitter of dew, and the crimson of cloud, and slumber of lake, and the foam of raging Gennesareth. Through this chapter drips the moonlight upon Ajalon, and through that carols the new created flocks that fly through the “ open firmament of heaven." Where is there in all the world poetical description like Job's champing, pawing, snorting, lightning

footed, thunder-necked, war-horse? How tame are Cowper's, Milton's, Bryant's, Dryden's tempests, beside David's storm that wrecks the mountains of Lebanon, and shivers the wilderness of Kadesh. See here how easily the Almighty holds the waters in the hollow of his hand; the five oceans held to the tip of his finger as a grassblade holds a dew-drop. It seems as if to the feet of the sacred writers the mountains had brought all their gems, and the sea all its pearls, and the gardens all their frank incense, and the spring all its blossoms, and the harvests all their wealth, and heaven all its glory, and eternity all its stupendous realities; and that since then, poets and orators and painters have been drinking from an exhausted fountain, and searching for diamonds amid realms utterly rifled and ransacked. Oh! this book is the hive of all sweetness; the armory of all well-tempered weapons; the tower containing the crown-jewels of the universe; the lamp that kindles all other lights; the home of all majesties and splendors; the stepping-stone on which heaven stoops to kiss the earth with its glories; the marriage ring that unites the celestial and the terrestrial, while all the clustering, white-robed multitudes of the sky stand round to rejoice at the nuptials. This book is the wreath into which are twisted all garlands, the song into which hath struck all harmonies, the river of light into which hath poured all the great tides of hallelujah, the firmament in which all suns, and moons, and stars, and constellations, and galaxies, and immensities, and universes, and eternities, wheel, and blaze, and triumph. Where is the young man with any music in his soul who is not stirred by Jacob's lament, or Nahum's dirge, or Habakkuk's dithyrambic, or Paul's march of the resurrection, or St. John's anthem of the ten thousand times ten thousand doxology of elders on their faces, answering to the trumpet blast of archangel with one foot on the sea and the other on the land swearing that time shall be no longer. In the latter part of the Psalms, we see David gathering together a great choir, standing

in galleries above each other: beasts and men on the first gallery; above them hills and mountains; above them fire, and hail, and tempest; above them sun, and moon, and stars of light; until, on the highest round, he arrays the host of angels. And then standing before this vast multitude, reaching from the depths of earth to the heights of heaven, like the leader of a great orchestra, he lifts his hands, crying, "Praise ye the Lord; let everything that hath breath praise the Lord." And all earthly creatures in their song, and mountains with their waving cedars, and tempests in their thunder and rattling hail, and stars on all their trembling harps of light, and angels on their thrones, respond in magnificent acclaim, "Praise ye the Lord; let everything that hath breath praise the Lord."

THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.

I cahnt endure the stoopid, wude,
Unculchawed chap,—the vulgar boah,

Who weahs in the morning the same pair of twousers
He woah the day befoah.

It makes me mad and vewy cwoss,

With pain and gwief I almost woah,

To see the next morning the same pair of twousers
He woah the day befoah!

And when I mingle with the thwong,

Down to the club or on the stweet,

It makes me fwantic that a man
Can be so doocid indiscweet,

So wough and weckless and so wude,

I weally want to spill his goah,

When he weahs in the morning the same pair of twousers

He woah the day befoah!

Now there are deeds I can excuse,

And wongs I can forgive,

But such a cwiminal as this

Shouldn't be allowed to live!

Why, the ideah! the monstwous wetch

With wage and fuwy makes me woah,

Who weahs in the morning the same pair of twousers

He woah the day befoah!

THE LEGEND OF ST. FREDA.-SARAH D. HOBART.

There once was an ancient city

Beside the silvery sea,

Where the white ships lay at anchor,
And the glad waves tossed in glee.

And down by the wharves the houses
Were low, and dark, and small;
But beyond, the streets were spacious
And the mansions grand and tall.

Here loathsome vice was hidden,
There virtue walked secure;

And those were the homes of the wealthy,
And these were the haunts of the poor.

In a dark and lonely garret

Where the sunlight's radiant flame
Through the narrow cobwebbed windows
Feebly and faintly came;-

Alone in the rosy morning,

Alone in the twilight shade,

With God and her precious lily
Dwelt a little orphan maid.

All day through the crowded city
She begged her bitter bread,
And at night in the lonely garret
She laid her weary head.

And as one eve she lingered

By the old cathedral grim,
Where swelled the organ's music
And rang the holy hymn,

Amid the roll of anthems,

And wailing of the psalms,

She heard the old priest pleading,

"Bring, bring to the Lord thine alms!"

Through sounding aisles and arches,

It rang like a trumpet call;

"Who gives to the dear Lord Jesus
The holiest gift of all?"

"I am small and poor," said Freda,

No offering can I bring

Save my flower, within whose petals
Are folded angel's wings,-

"My lily, with snow-white blossoms,
And green leaves arching o'er;
But life will be darker than ever
When it blooms for me no more."

The wind from the distant forest
Came with a dirge-like moan,
"Why should I fear?" said Freda,
"Will the Lord not keep his own?"

Then home she ran through the darkness,
And out from the garret's gloom

She brought her beautiful lily

With its fragrant, rare perfume.

Her eyes were sadly tearful

As she passed thro' the wondering throng, But she thought of the holy Saviour

And her fainting heart grew strong.

And she said, while her blue eyes brightened With the light of a love divine,

"I give to the dear Lord Jesus

The only treasure mine!"

Gold gleamed upon the altar
And gems of richest cost,

But the priest said, bending reverent,
"This child has given the most!"

Then lo, a beauteous marvel!

The dew-drops pearls became;

Each flower was a golden lily,

Each leaf was a leaf of flame;

And there beside the altar

The Christ-child seemed to stand, And the crown reserved for the sainted Gleamed bright within his hand,

And his voice in silvery accents

Rang through the lofty hall:

"A crown of light for Freda

Who gives to the Lord her all!"