The patriarch may wed again to abate the loneliness of age and sorrow; but no other spouse is a Sarah. A multitude of sons may call him father, but they are not the children of promise; and he must send them away with portions. towards the east, where they shall come to a long renown, and grow powerful by the shores of the ocean, among the sons of Joktan or the Arabian Cuthim.

And her son too, the quiet and devout Isaac, shall bring to her tent the lovely daughter of Bethuel, and be comforted in his youthful spouse when his mother is no more.

Almost forty years pass, and another race have sprung up around the hospitable board of Abraham. Far removed in the wilds of Paran, the brood of Ishmael are numbered by their thousands, and the children of Lot are grown to nations, while the sons of Isaac are but two only; the one heir to the promises, the other his mortal foe, whose race shall become mighty, while the sons of Jacob shall come late from poor estate to powerful empire, and their Messiah shall judge the world he shall first die to redeem.

At length the old patriarch, satiated with years and honors, like a shock of corn fully ripe, lays down his venerable head upon the bed of death, and is gathered to his people in the holy mount of God. In a princely funereal train the race. of Ishmael come from the south, and with the heirs of promise gather about his lamentable bier. In the cave of Machpelah beside his lovely consort he sleeps in peace; but far off beyond the boundaries of time their spirits renew the nuptial league, and rejoice in the repose of heaven that shall never end. Together they may watch the life of their sons and daughters upon earth through every trial, and rejoice when they overcome the foes that lay snares in their path, or mitigate the pressure of calamity when it falls upon the just; and at the end receive each with an individual kiss, when the pains of this mortal state end in a universe of pure bliss. Prophets and kings from age to age among their posterity shall pass before their eyes, for whose sake the great empires of the world rise and fall; and Messiah, with his infinite train of apostles and martyrs, shall come later to fill the

whole earth with the faith no less than the fame, the glory no less than the trials, of Abraham and Sarah, and all nations of them that are saved shall call them blessed throughout eternity.

"HATH NOT THY ROSE A CANKER?"

PRESSED with the weight of morning dews,
Its slender stalk the rose was bending,
And red and white in changing hues
Upon its cheek were sweetly blending:
But underneath the leaflets bright,
By blushing beauty hid from sight,
Enamored with its fragrance rare,
The canker-worm was feasting there.

O thou, who in thy youthful days
Ambition's wreaths art proudly twining,
And fondly hoping worldly praise
Will cheer thine after years declining—
Beware, lest every tempting rose
That in Ambition's pathway grows,
Conceal beneath its semblance fair
The lurking canker of despair!

And thou who in thine early morn
For sin the paths of truth art leaving,
Remember, though no pointed thorn
May pierce the garland thou art weaving,
Yet every bud whence flowrets bloom
Shall its own living sweets entomb;
For deep the canker-worm of care
Is feasting on its vitals there.

Thou too, the beautiful and bright,

At Pleasure's shrine devoutly kneeling,

Dost thou not see the fatal blight
Across thy roseate chaplet stealing?
Time hath not touched with fingers cold
Those glossy leaves of beauty's mould;
And yet each bud and blossom gay
Is marked for slow but sure decay.

O ye who sigh for flowers that bloom
In one eternal spring of gladness,
Where beauty finds no darkened tomb,
And joy hath never dreamed of sadness;
Elysian fields are yours to roam,

Where groves of fadeless pleasures bloom;
Oh, linger not where sorrow's tears
May blight the cherished hopes of years.

THE GIRDLE OF FIRE.

THE lower counties of New Jersey are proverbially barren, being covered with immense forests of pine, interspersed with cedar swamps. During the dry summer months, these latter become parched to an extent that is incredible, and the accidental contagion of a fire-brand often wraps immense tracks of country in flames. The rapidity with which the conflagration, when once kindled, spreads through these swamps, can scarcely be credited except by those who know how thoroughly the moss and twigs are dried up by the heat of an August sun. Indeed, scarcely a spot can be pointed out in West Jersey, which has not, at one time or another, been ravaged by conflagration. It was but a few years since that an immense tract of these pine barrens was on fire, and the citizens of Philadelphia can recollect the lurid appearance of the sky at night, seen at the distance of thirty or even forty miles from the scene of the conflagration. The legendary history of these wild counties is full of daring deeds and hair-breadth escapes which have been witnessed during such times of peril. One of these traditionary stories it is our purpose to relate. The period of our tale dates far back into the early history of the sister state, when the country was even more thinly settled than at present.

It was a sunny morning in midsummer, when a gay party was assembled at the door of a neat house in one of the lower counties of New Jersey. Foremost in the group stood a tall manly youth, whose frank countenance at once attracted the eye. By his side was a bright young creature, apparently about eighteen years of age, whose golden tresses were a fit type of the sunny beauty of her countenance: but

now her soft blue eyes were dim with tears, and she leaned on the shoulder of her mother, who was apparently equally affected. The dress of the daughter, and her attitude of leave-taking, told that she was a bride, going forth from the home of her childhood, to enter on a new and untried sphere of life. The other members of the group were composed of her father, her brothers and sisters, and the bridemen and bridemaids.

"God bless you, my daughter, and have you in his holy keeping," said the father, as he gave her his last embrace— "and now farewell!"

The last kiss was given, the last parting word was said, the last long look had been taken, and now the bridal party was being whirled through the forest on one of the sweetest mornings of the sweet month of July.

It was indeed a lovely day. Their way lay through an old road which was so rarely traveled that it had become overgrown with grass, among which the thick dew-drops, glittering in the morning sun, were scattered like jewels on a monarch's mantle. The birds sang merrily in the trees, or skipped gaily from branch to branch, while the gentle sighing of the wind, and the occasional murmur of a brook crossing the road, added to the exhilarating influences of the hour. The travelers were all young and happy, and so they gradually forgot the sadness of the parting hour, and ere they had traversed many miles, the green arcades of that lovely old forest were ringing with merry laughter. Suddenly, however, the bride paused in her innocent mirth, and, while a shade of paleness overspread her cheek, called the attention of her husband to a dark black cloud, far off on the horizon, and yet gloomier and denser than the darkest thunder-cloud.

"The forest is on fire!" was his instant ejaculation; "think you not so, Charnley ?" and he turned to his grooms

man.

"Yes-but the wind is not towards us, and the fire must be miles from our course. There is no need for alarm, Ellen," said he, turning to the bride, his sister.

"But our road lies altogether through the forest," she timidly rejoined, "and you know there isn't a house or cleared space for miles."

"Yes-but my dear sis, so long as the fire keeps its distance, it matters not whether our road is through the forest or the fields. We will drive on briskly, and, before noon, you will laugh at your fears. Your parting from home has weakened your nerves."

No more was said, and for some time the carriage proceeded in silence. Meantime the conflagration was evidently spreading with great rapidity. The dark, dense clouds of smoke, which had at first been seen hanging only in one spot, had now extended in a line along the horizon, gradually edging around so as to head-off the travelers. But this was done so imperceptibly, that, for a long time, they were not aware of it, and they had journeyed at least half an hour before they saw their danger. At length the bride spoke again :

"Surely, dear Edward," she said, addressing her husband, "the fire is sweeping around a-head of us: I have been watching it by yonder blasted pine, and can see it slowly creeping across the trunk."

Every eye was instantly turned in the direction in which she pointed and her brother, who was driving, involuntarily checked the horses. A look of dismay was on each countenance as they saw the words of the bride verified. There could be no doubt that the fire had materially changed its bearing since they last spoke, and now threatened to cut off their escape altogether.

"I wish, Ellen, we had listened to your fears, and turned back half an hour ago," said the brother; "we had better do it at once."

"God help us that is impossible!" said the husband, looking backwards; "the fire has cut off our retreat!"

It was as he said. The flames, which at first had started at a point several miles distant and at right angles to the road the party was traveling, had spread out in every direction, and, finding the swamp in the rear of the travelers