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he was attached, and ignorant of the place where he was reported to have received his wound. "Good lady," she replied, "I could not rest, night or day, thinking about him. My poor boy! What he suffers in his body is, no doubt, cause of great affliction to me; but what is that, compared with the danger of his soul? O the eternity, the long eternity that's before him!" Here, she sobbed aloud. "He was a good child," she continued, "and often read the Bible to me of a night, when he came home from the mountain; but I dare not say he was turned to God. Yet, I have seen the tears in his little eyes, too, dear child, when I have taken him on my knee, and spoken to him of the Saviour of sinners, and how he loved little children, and said; Suffer them to come unto me, and forbid them not.' But, lady, it is an awful thing to die, when one has not a good hope through grace,' that all will be well for ever. O my poor boy, my poor boy!"

Finally, however, we diverted her from her purpose. "It was very improbable," we told her, "that she would find him, and perhaps she herself might be unable to

vain!' His eye is over them, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against their peace. Remember that inimitable passage of Luther's hymn :

"Act but the infant's gentle part,
Give up to love thy willing heart :
No fondest parent's melting breast
Yearns, like thy God's, to make thee blest.
Taught its dear mother soon to know,
The tenderest babe his love can shew.
Bid thy base servile fear retire-
This task no labour will require."*

Repeat these lines, dear Alphonzo, fre quently to yourself, and supplicate the aid of the Holy Spirit to apply them to your heart. Through them, behold the wonderful love of that Redeemer, who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might be rich.' Meditate on his gracious condescension. Think of his kind invitation: Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,

* We have adopted Mr. Browne's translation of this beautiful hymn, which we cannot too strongly recommend to the perusal of our readers.

He does not,

and I will give you rest.' indeed, promise that every thing shall glide smoothly with us in our journey through life; but he encourages us notwithstanding: 'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'

Emily does not deny that she will rejoice when the season approaches, which will restore you to her retreats; but, in the mean time, she would wish you not to mourn too deeply over what is irremediable. To prove to you, however, that I have not been altogether unmindful of you, I send you a few lines, in which I have attempted to clothe the feelings of a pensive hour in the garb of poetry. I need not crave your compassion towards them-you know too well, that all Emily does, requires forgiveness and pity.

LE SOUVENIR.

On the night we parted last,
Did the rain fall cold and fast?

Did the wind of winter blow

O'er the valley fleeced with snow?

VOL. II.

C

Or, on Balmè's haughty crest
Did the storm's rude legions rest?
No:-the skies of gentlest hue
Wore a soft ethereal blue;
And arrayed with silvery light,
Gladdening far the reign of night,

Mounting to her peaceful noon,
Walked through heaven the waning moon;
Nor, o'er all her liquid way,

Did the highest cloudlet stray.

Distant as the eye could reach,
From the wave that swept the beach,
To yon mountain's towering head,
Where the heath-cock makes his bed:
Where the mew retires to rest:
Where the eagle tends her nest-
All was peace-nor sound was heard,
Save the prayer for thee preferred:

"Thou art going far, and where
Many a Syren weaves the snare:
Where Religion's heavenly voice
Bids no mourner's heart rejoice:
Take, O take, then, o'er thy head
Faith's protecting buckler spread;
And may He thy path attend,
He, declared the stranger's friend,
And thy bark good angels guide
Safe through danger's adverse tide.

Shun, O shun, the charmer's wile

Ruin lurks beneath her smile:

Keep thy heart when near her seat:
Steel thy bosom: bind thy feet:

-O, may all a Saviour's power
Arm thee in that trying hour!

And if heaven ordain it so,
And we meet no more below,
When, adown thine evening-sky,
Death is seen to hover nigh:
When, as shrill the summons rings,
Darkness o'er thee waves her wings:
May the voice of love proclaim
Pardon in Emmanuel's name,

While thy thoughts-thy wishes, soar
Where, once met, we part no more!"

I must now conclude this voluminous epistle, lest I exhaust your patience. You know I often try it; but let me experience you still as easy to be pacified as hitherto. The united regards of the glen 'accompany this, with the tender remembrances of your unworthy

EMILY DU B.

ALPHONZO TO EMILY.

Paris, Sept. 15th.

THE days roll heavily onward-different indeed in their tenour from those which I

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