other's dead, my child. at is dead?

, why, then, 'tis only sleeping;

she sleeps. Come, mother,-rise :ry cold!

art is cold.

bloodless; would that mine were so! would waken, she would soon be warm. -apped in this thin sheet?

If I,

orning, were not covered better,

old like her.

t like her:

t warm you, or thick clothes; but herwarm again!

ould wake her,

ile on me, as she always does,

-Mother, you have slept too long.—

ale; and it would frighten me, ow she loves me.

- my child.

when I sat upon her lap, I felt her side; and then she said eart that beat, and bade me feel heart, and they both beat alike, as the quickest. And I feel rt yet; but hers I cannot feel.

, child, you drive me mad. Come hence, I say.

father, be not angry; let me stay here

her wakens.

-e told you,

cannot wake-not in this world;

er she will wake for us.

ave slept like her, then we shall see her.

ld it were night then.

unhappy child;

night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep

ong sleep. Thy father soon shall sleep it;

hou be deserted upon earth:

egard thee; thou wilt soon forget adst natural ties,-an orphan, lone,

Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men,

And women still more wicked.

C. Father, father,

Why do you look so terribly upon me?
You will not hurt me?

F. Hurt thee, darling? no!

Has sorrow's violence so much of anger,
That it should fright my boy?

C.

You are not angry, then?

F. Too well I love you.

Come, dearest, come.

C. All you have said I cannot now remember,
Nor what it meant, you terrified me so;
But this, I know, you told me,-I must sleep
Before my mother wakens; so, to-morrow—
Oh! father, that to-morrow were but come!

LESSON CLV.

Burial of the Young.-MRS. SIGourney.

THERE was an open grave, and many an eye
Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare

The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.
There seemed a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.

There was a train

Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly,
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers,
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came
With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell :—

with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, of those, who at her side were nursed

e mother.

Ah! and one was there,

he fading of the summer rose,

But Death

to greet her as his bride. ween them. The pale lover watched er journey through the shadowy vale, st to his heart the ice of death

om hers. There was a brilliant flush
about her, and her kindling eye

ch unearthly light, that hope would hang
he archer's arrow, while it dropped
on. Many a restless night she toiled
light breath which held her from the tomb,
ng like a snow-wreath, which the sun
his own, on some cool mountain's breast,
, and tinges long with rosy light.

r the musings of her silent couch,
ons of that matron form, which bent
sing tenderness, to soothe and bless
e dream: and her emaciate hand
ing prayer she raised, that He, who saved
ed mother, would redeem the child.
prison lost? Whence, then, that peace
ke, settling o'er a soul that loved

d its pleasures? Whence that angel smile,
ach the allurements of a world so dear
inted and resigned? that eloquence,
- urging those, whose hearts were full
mary happiness, to seek

portion? Whence that voice of joy,
om the marble lip, in life's last strife,
th, to hail her everlasting home?—
soners, be convinced. And when
hat fair brow and those unfrosted locks
co dust,-where the young sleeper waits
urrection morn,-oh! lift the heart
e to Him who gave the victory.

LESSON CLVI.

= the Loss of Professor Fisher in the Albion.-BRAINARD.

THE breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm;
The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky, unite.

So science whispered in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckoned thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear
Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wrecked thee!-But there is a shore
Where storms are hushed; where tempests never rage,
Where angry skies, and blackening seas, no more,
With gusty strength, their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod—
Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is God.

LESSON CLVII.

The Sunday School.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

GROUP after group are gathering;-such as pressed
Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast,
Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ;-
Group after group glide on with noiseless tread,
and round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred,
and holy words their ruby lips repeat,

with a chastened glance, in modulation sweet.

ere are, upon whose childish brows
erty hath done the work of Care:
sad ones!-'tis your Father's house,
whose consecrated dome you are;
geous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
the gaudier forms that gaily move,
n, perchance, mistaken as you are,
of many colors" proves His love,
in the heart, and whose reward above.

essed laborers in this humble sphere,
s of saintlike charity inclined,
your cells of meditation dear,
rth to gird the weak, untutored mind,
no payment, save one smile refined
1 love,-one tear of contrite pain,-
ye forfeit to your mission kind
f earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain
without end, mid yon celestial plain.

LESSON CLVIII.

's Account of an Incident in the early History of America.*-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

my wanderings, the transatlantic settlements caped me; more especially the country of New to which our native land has shaken from her runkard flings from him his treasures, so much cious in the eyes of God and of his children. usands of our best and most godly men-such teousness might come between the Almighty and and prevent the ruin of cities-are content to be

ative is found in "Peveril of the Peak." The incident occurred lass.,-a village on the Connecticut river, about ninety miles -September 1st, 1675. The mysterious stranger, who appeared y as a deliverer, was Goffe, the regicide. Whalley, another of at condemned Charles I, was also concealed in the town of Had