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ready for the use of man, bat requiring his sagacity to discover thsm, and his art to apply them to the ends they were intended to subserve. The sterile sandbank was lying beneath his feet for ages, waiting for his skill to convert it into beautiful and transparent glass. The vapor floated idly away upon the atmosphere till the hand of human genius taught its resistless sinews, in the form of the steam-cngine, to toil in the service of mankind and perform the labor of millions. The unseen finger of the magnet pointed with unvarying constancy towards the pole for scores of centuries, inviting some discoverer to poise it on a pivot, and with the mariner's compass to direct his unerring track across the pathless ocean. The ball of the cotton-plant and the thread of the silkworm were ready for ages to be transformed by the finger of art into elegant fabries, which should protect and adorn the human frame. And in wild swamps and hillsides grew and decayed for many ages the unpalatable types of the fruite and roots and grains, that by the nurture of the orchard and the garden were to be improved into the most wholesome and luscious articles of nutriment for the support of human life.

And who can imagine that the- hidden riches of the material creation have now, at length, been all discovered? Are there no hid treasures yet to be searched out f Why may there not be other discoveries as valuable as that of the properties of the magnet or of the power of steam; and other inventions as brilliant as that of the printing-press or the magnetic telegraph; and other improvements in the culture of the soil, as beneficial to the race, in supplying our animal wanU, as the exchange of the hunter's roving life for the habits of the gardener? Towards what wonderful revelations of the teeming future is every circling year speeding the world onward! What large promises of a "good time coming" are given ue, in the unfathomed mine of riches strewed by the hand of the Creator over the material world I

And has not the creation more admirable resources still stored up in the depths of the human mind? The mind of man, in its first formation, is a bed of diamonds earth-cased, unpolished, lustreless. Apart from cultivation, from the waking- up of its energies by the contact of influences without itself, the human intellect gives feebler tokens of sagacity than the instinct of the irrational animals. There is fire in the flint, but it requires the

stroke of the steel to produce from it the glowing spark. The value of mind, like that of every object in creation, depends not -on what it is in its crudest state, but on what it can become under the plastic hand of art The rough pebble-stone becomes more precious than gold when once you discover that it can be polished into a sparkling gem. And when one pebble from among a thousand has been thus transformed into a ruby, you then learn the inherent value of all those that remain. And what are the noblest and most brilliant minds that have dazzled the eyes of the world but the choicest gems, taken out of the common mine and "polished after the similitude of a palace 1" And if the mental powers of the whole race had been developed and disciplined and warmed and enlivened with the sunlight of knowledge, according to the capacity of each individual, what a glorious firmament of stars would have been ever beaming on the intellectual world! What a waste—what a burial of precious mental treasures has the world witnessed age by age I

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfiithomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower Is born to blush unseen,

And waste Its sweetness on the desert air."

The deepest of the dark unfathomed caves of ocean is not so truly fathomless as the ocean-like mine of hid treasures in the deep, mysterious soul. What a strange whispering-gallery of deathless memories do we often discover in the pensive bosom I I sit musingly by my chamber-window as the solemn twilight of a cool autumnal evening is beginning to gather around me, and listen to a soft melodious strain. from an unknown maiden's silver voice in the cottage across the street. It is the very song that charmed my infant ears from a kind sister's lips, when she laid my young aching? head upon her lap, and with her soft melancholy voice soothed me into gentle slumbers. In an instant the unfathomed caves of memory are yielding up their treasures. That sister's gladdening smile is beaming upon me. I feel her soft hand passing across my fevered brow, just as I felt it a quarter of a century ago. The little prayer she taught me goes up at this moment from the unsearchable depths of my heart, where she buried it. And now I see her in her bridal robes, and the patriarchal blessing with which she departed seems to be echoing, in lingering and solemn sounds, away down, deep in the chambers of my soul. And

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now, again, I am at her funeral; and my heart throbs as it did long years ago, when they turned the stained coffin-lid over her mild sleeping face, and shut her away from my sight for ever; and I feel my heart dying again to all the attractions of a gay, but grief-tinged world. Strange, inexplicable electric chain, that can reach down thus into the unfathomed ocean of the memory and the heart 1 You touch that chain again when you walk about an ancestral burying-ground, when you recall the absent onea to the Thanksgiving-dinner, when you stand gazing in silent reverie upon the Bunker Hill monument or upon Plymouth Rock. What mysterious mental associations, what slumbering fires of moral emotion, what deep-sounding harmonies of soul-music are treasured away in the depths of the living spirit 1

And this unfathomed ocean of the mind is an inexhaustible fountain—not only of memories and emotions, but of ever-enlarging thought . The scholar, the reasoner, the poet, diving into the living spring within his own breast, studs his magic page with here and there a sparkling gem; but in the deep sea of his soul lie broad beds of incrusted diamonds, waiting to be brought up to the light and polished by his classic hand, that they may dazzle the eyes of admiring beholders. The profoundest thinkers have acknowledged, in most significant terms, their inability so to command into action the mental energies of which they were conscious as to give full form and expression to the rich germs of thought that seemed struggling to be born within their breasts. And where is the reflecting mind that has not often reproached itself for a mental imbecility which it feels to be unworthy of its inborn energies? "What embryos of thought are within me that have not been developed into definite forms! What a faculty of elaborating these thoughts that has not been disciplined to labor and energized to the worthy execution of its office! In what mental poverty am I living, though I feel it that deep in the heait of my being are rich beds of unwrought and exhaustless intellectual and moral wealth I"

And are these treasures of the soul to lie buried and useless for ever? Shall the diamonds, of Brazil come forth, at length, from their hiding-places to sparkle in the sunlight, and shall the diamonds of richer lustre, buried within the immortal mind, not be at length brought forth in their beauty, and so polished as to display their native brilliancy? When

skilful education, discipline, healthful physical development, the inspiration of virtuous affections, and the loftier inspiration of religion shall bring out, in living beauty, the hid treasures of the mind, then, with a significance unappreciated before, shall the exclamation come forth frtm sach adoring heart, "I will praise Thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

What a new creation will then be in human society, when the innate capacities of the souls of its millions shall have a skilful nurture and full scope for their enlargement; and the boundless riches of the material creation shall have been set in order for their contemplation, and spread out before them /or their enjoyment! What a broad sea of vigorous and instructed mind is thus, at length, to rise up and overspread the bosom of the world! And when all the mists of error shall have been dissipated from this broad sea of mind, and it shall have been sanctified by the Spirit of God, holding the truth in the love of the truth, then what a deep-toned and myriad-voiced anthem of praise will be poured forth into the ears of the Redeemer, from souls unnumbered that, intelligently beholding the glory of the Lord, shall be changed into the same image, and filled with all the fulness of God!



In Bethlehem there rose a star,

Illumining the skies, Which shepherds, wondering from afar,

Beheld with wakeful eyes.

Its course they followed till it led

To where an infant lay,
Upon whose fair and comely head

Shone first the dawning day.

No eider-down his couch composed,

But bay und rushes hard; No king's grand cortege round him closed,

No proud imperial guard.

But when the tidings went abroad

Of a Prince in Israel born, Then Herod, in contempt of God,

Spake with a smile of scorn:

"Show me the wondrous babe's retreat,
That I may worship too,
As wclhas those, with voices sweet,
From heaven's ethereal blue I"

But 'twas designed that Israel's king

No more should be of earth;
Ye wist men, now your presents bring,

For 'tis Immanuix's birth I

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Bow low your heads, ye haughty sires I
Own ye the Saviour's reign—

Ye chiefs of lands whose altar-fires
Light up the sacred fane.

Your subjects lead from slavery's thrall,

And teach them to be free,
No more beneath the shade to fall

Of error's Upas tree:

For Christ shall be their guide and Lord,

The olive branch to bear, Victoriously, where men have warred

Like phantoms of despair.

Now hath the reign of peace begun,

Which shall to all extend, Wherever shines the noonday sun,

Or Luna's beams descend.

Henceforth will God abide with men,

As in primeval days,
His Holy Spirit come again,

And fill each mouth with praise.

From this fair morn, whose beauteous ray

Outshines all diadems,
Shall people gather, every day,

And bring their precious gems;

That He, the Prince Immanuel,

May be inspired with joy, Beholding all on earth that dwell

Their powers for Jlim employ.

So peace on earth and joy in heaven

Shall be for ever known,
And pecrtn strains, by myriads given.

Flout near the Father's throne.



—" We 're not all here.
Some are away—the dead ones dear.

— We are all here I
Even they, the dead—though dead, no dear—
They're round us as they were of o'd—
We are all here!"

Swket is the memory of the departed. Man, ever aspiring—seeking higher and more perfect enjoyment—lives not in the present. He looks now forward in hope, now backward with regret, and, pining, mourns the loss of those who made this life most desirable.

The endearments of life are found not in ourselves, but in the society we enjoy and the love we have for others.

The tie that binds us here, though made of mortal clay—a fragile bond—is yet a golden chain; and from it many a link has dropped, even in the short period of our existence. One

by one they leave us; but in their departure they sunder not the tie, for the heart in affection will yearn for those whose forms the clay-cold clod has long entombed. The grassy green grave and snowy slab tell the passing stranger they have lived and died. Bo, too, they speak to us; but also more—they bring to mind their forms and features, their characters and sympathies, and kindle anew the flame of love.

The mind delights to wander backward and view, in thought, the faces of those with whom we were wont to associate.

We dwell upon the thought, and soon are lost in reverie; and, as we wake, it seems that wa have been again holding communion with the dear departed—that we have seen their forma, viewed those familiar faces, clasped again those hands, and conversed with them as we were wont to do.

The heart sighs for the departed, and does it find no response J Is there no return for the continued outpourings of the spirit t

Nay, there is an answer in these silent musings, and the unheard words awake this throbbing heart to quicker beatings.

How the mind delights in this spiritual reverie I How it seems to be inspired with new emotions, and holier resolves to live and be like those who have gone before I A voice seems silently to speak to us, and invites to share its happiness. But yet we cling to earth; and, "while we linger, that spirit seems to follow our wanderings and direct our way.

May it not be that these influences are those of some guardian angel—the spirit of a parent, brother or sister, speaking to and caring for ust Our belief in angelic existences is but too vague and shadowy. The whole story seems like a pleasing superstition, an enchanted fable from the mythology of the ancient*, or like a eweet strain of melody floating to our ears from some far-off land. We profess a belief in their existence, but how little is our practice in accordance with the same! We speak of them as personifications of good and ill, rather than actual living beings, possessing a distinct individuality, and endowed with vast and vivid powers of mind; as being) effeminate in all their characteristies, rather than capable of swift and energetic action; as servants of spirits, rather than beings of lofty sympathies and holy affection for mankind; weak in their capacities, both bodily and mental, rather than gifted with superhuman strength and wisdom, and with a universal development of powers of which we can form but



faint conceptions. We can but believe in such an order of beings, for to doubt it would be scepticism itself. But what are they? What was their creation I What the laws of their existence? Are they the spirits of men glorified and made perfect in a new life beyond the gravel

The belief that the spirits of departed friends become guardian angels, to watch around those they love, but leave, is most pleasing and delightful. It calms the mind, it comforts amid all the trials of earth, it consoles under all afflictions, drops the balm of healing into the wounds of bereavement, and lightens that heaviest stroke which sin can bring on mortals. How we love the thought! how we cherish the reflection, when once it has filled the mind 1

What is the employment of the spirits of our friends after their departure? This is a question which often presses itself upon the mind, and one on which the mind, in turn, delights to dwell . We muse upon the inquiry, yet make to ourselves no satisfactory reply.

That their first employment is the praise of their Creator, we doubt not, and that joy and praise ever does and will fill their souls. From the whole tenor of the Scriptures we should judge this truth. They must ever be in His presence, enjoying the smiles of His countenance and basking in the sunshine of His love. "I eay unto you," says Christ, "that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven." They stand continually in his presence, and become ministering angels to do his will. But is this, we naturally inquire, the limit of their enjoyments I Man may love and praise his Maker—be devoted to his service; but he is here endowed with a twofold Jove to Gad nnd to man, and each, in accordance with will divine, and in that degree which He permits, influences and controls his conduct. And is it probable that in its heavenly existence the enul has more limited powers to love than while on earth I Nay, his love will not be more limited, but rather, more extended and more pure. When the love to God shall have so infinitely increased,-so also shall the love to man.

"Heaven is all Inve; all joy in giving joy.
It never had ereated but r0 bless.
And shall il, then, strike nu" the tt%\ of lifo
A being blest, or worthy so to be?"

Nay, if man is loved here, he will be loved hereafter; and the ties of affection will not be sundered, but strengthened by the separation of

death. Death divides to join, unchains to bind. It separates the bodies, but unites the souls. If there is one on earth we love, we shall love that one the more when from heaven we look back to view the scenes of time. But where is heaven f we ask. The child replies: "Tia where God is." But God is everywhere. Then God is here. If he is here, then here is heaven. But in heaven with God dwell the spirits of the blest. Then here do God and holy spirits dwell.

Here, then, we may live by them surrounded, and by them defended, though we realize it not. Could we but pierce the veil of mortality which hangs so heavily before our vision, we doubtless could look upon a more radiant throng than any of which we can at present conceive. We almost ask with them to hold converse, but we cannot. They are too holy to converse with earth, though they may watch over us. Flesh may not commune with spirit, save as on the bended knee man talks with God.

Living with angelsl Pleasing, solemn thought! Oh, strong restraint from vice and ill I How great an antidote for the sting of death 1

Have you not some friend in heaven? Believe this, then, the heaven of that spirit, to guard and protect you from evil, and from the power of him that would destroy.

That parent's cheek is chilled. The beating heart moves slower and more slow. Fainter and yet more faint it tolls its graveward march. It flutters—flutters—stops. 'Tis death. Not dreadful. No; 'tis pleasing, peaceful, happy death. The spirit disunites fro u the body. To that clay form we cling till the morrow's sun has passed, and then we give to earth what she so kindly gave. But the spirit—where is that? In that lone chamber, there 'twas said: ''It has taken its flight." But did it depart? for, as we enter, it would seem there still. The spot is sacred, the couch is hallowed. That chair, the table, those curtains veiling now as they did then the windows, all speak to our minds the scene herein transpired. Though mouths and years have passed, a holy influence here pervades the soul, and follows, aa departing we behind us close those walls. That sainted spirit seems to go with and direct our course, counsels in difficulties, strengthens in temptations, and support* in trials.

But let us tarry in that upper room. The sun its course has run, and sunk behind the western plains. In beauty it now has clothed the azure sky. Those high-piled clouds, a moment since so snowy white, are now huge heaps of gold,

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which like reared pillars mark the burial-place of the king of day. The beauty of the West reflects ite light in golden, purple, royal crimeon-colored hueB on all the o'erspanned heavens, till at the Orient ray meets ray, and seemingly would usher in the return of morn.

In all the glorious beauty of the heavens earth partakes. Mountain and plain, hill and vale, each conspire to make the lovely ecene more lovely, and its attractions more attractive. But soon the hilltops and the forest-oaks are tinged with darker shades, and valley, shrub and rivulet are clothed with the more sombre light of evening. How beautiful now to sit at evening-tide, and to cull again the flowers which strew the highway of memory I How sweet, as gray twilight steals o'er the earth, and etar by star shooU gently forth, to journey backward in our life, and view familiar forms and faces through the dim viata of the past! Days, months and years are scanned, and in one short half hour we live again our score or more of years. Who does not delight to live again in memory? Who does not love to sit down in the hushed and quiet hours of existence, and call around him those long-cherished and familiar friends; to look again into-that eye which mirrored not more clearly his own countenance than it spoke the soul within, all warm with affection; to hear again that voice which was melody in his ear, and which, though long since hushed to his senses, has ever since echoed soft, eweet music to his heart?

In life how beautiful, how graceful was that sister's form! In memory's fancies how holy, how angelic now! I jee her still. How saintlike in her loveliness, how pure, how perfect! Fain would I to my bosom clasp that form of light, and almost worship her, most loved of all who have passed from earth to heaven.

111 see tliee still:
Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust:
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou 'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee, as of old;
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear;
In every scene of memory dear,
I see thee still."

The blessed dead!' How free from stain our mutual love! The earthly taint of our affections is buried with that which was corruptible, and now the divine flame, bright and unchanging, illumines the breast. No selfishness can check

its silent tide, naught mortal can mar its heavenly purity.

The glorious dead I How glorious are they! How reverently we speak their names, how fondly cherish their words in our remembrance! We see them now, grown how unspeakably wise in the limitless field of troth, and become gloriously beautiful in that realm of all-surpassing loveliness! The immortal dead! How joyous are they mid the fountains of undying pleasure! how happy they in tenderly looking upon us and closely surrounding our being! How they earnestly entreat ns to holiness, and touchingly chide the sins and follies of our lives! Each heart has ita Necropolis, filled with the memory of the loved and unforgotten. Let ua then talk pleasantly of the dead, and believe them with us, though our bodily senses perceive them not.

Let us talk of them as yet of our number, though purer than ourselves; who pursue no longer the fleeting baubles of time, but have already grasped and secured the realities of eternity.

With their bodies, put not away their namee so loved. How they struggled at parting with us, even when in prospect of a higher blies! Why thrust the thought of them so far from our mindsf Why speak of them with awe. and remember them only with sighing? Dear were they to ns when hand clasped hand, when "love spoke love to eye"and heart responded to heart; why ehould they be less dear when they have grown worthy a higher, holier love than our8—when their souls, now perfect, almost call forth adoration I .Why love them the less, since we may believe they surround our being and guide our faltering footsteps? Let u«, then, reverently, but cheerfully and lovingly, by the hearthside and by the graveside, in solitude and amid the multitude, speak of the departed. Thus shall the broad stream of death narrow and dwindle to but a little rill.


Mcpt 1 be left forgotten in the dust,

When fate, relenting, lets the flowers survive? Must nature's voice, to man alone unjust,

Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive

With disappointment, penury and pain?
No! heaven's eternal spring shall yet arrive,

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of love's triumphant reign. Bkatth.

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