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LESSON LVI.

Sunday Evening.-BowRING.

How shall I praise thee, Lord of light?
How shall I all thy love declare?
The earth is veiled in shades of night;
But heaven is open to my prayer ;-
That heaven, so bright with stars and suns;
That glorious heaven, which knows no bound;
Where the full tide of being runs,

And life and beauty glow around.

From thence, thy seat of light divine,
Circled by thousand streams of bliss,
Which calmly flow and brightly shine,-
Say, to a world so mean as this,
Canst thou direct thy pitying eye?

How shall my thoughts expression find,
All lost in thy immensity!

How shall I seek, thou infinite Mind,
Thy holy presence, God sublime!

Whose power and wisdom, love and grace,
Are greater than the round of time,
And wider than the bounds of space!

Gently the shades of night descend;
Thy temple, Lord, is calm and still;
A thousand lamps of ether blend,
A thousand fires that temple fill,
To honour thee. "Tis bright and fair,
As if the very heavens, impressed
With thy pure image smiling there,
In all their loveliest robes were dressed.
Yet thou canst turn thy friendly eye
From that immeasurable throne;
Thou, smiling on humanity,

Dost claim earth's children for thy own,
And gently, kindly, lead them through
Life's varied scenes of joy and gloom,
Will evening's pale and pearly dew
Tips the green sod that decks their tomb.

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LESSON LVII.

The Star of Bethlehem.-J. G. PERCIVAL.

BRIGHTER than the rising day,
When the sun of glory shines;
Brighter than the diamond's ray,
Sparkling in Golconda's mines;
Beaming through the clouds of wo,
Smiles in Mercy's diadem

On the guilty world below,

The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When our eyes are dimmed with tears,
This can light them up again,
Sweet as music to our ears,
Faintly warbling o'er the plain.
Never shines a ray so bright
From the purest earthly gem;
O! there is no soothing light
Like the Star of Bethlehem.

Grief's dark clouds may o'er us roll,
Every heart may sink in wo,
Gloomy conscience rack the soul,

And sorrow's tears in torrents flow;
Still, through all these clouds and storms
Shines this purest heavenly gem,
With a ray that kindly warms-
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When we cross the roaring wave
That rolls on life's remotest shore;

When we look into the

grave,

And wander through this world no more
This, the lamp whose genial ray,
Like some brightly-glowing gem,
Points to man his darkling way-
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

Let the world be sunk in sorrow,
Not an eye be charmed or blessed;

We can see a fair to-morrow

Smiling in the rosy west;

This, her beacon, Hope displays;
For, in Mercy's diadem,

Shines, with Faith's serenest rays,
The Star that rose in Bethlehem.

When this gloomy life is o'er,
When we smile in bliss above,
When, on that delightful shore,
We enjoy the heaven of love,-
O! what dazzling light shall shine
Round salvation's purest gem!
O! what rays of love divine
Gild the Star of Bethlehem!

LESSON LVIII.

The Funeral of Maria.-MACKENZIE.

MARIA was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, equally indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavour had been used, and had been attended with that success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when not prevented by mistaken fondness, or untimely vanity.

Few young ladies have attracted more admiration; none ever felt it less: with all the charms of beauty, and the polish of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was ripening to reward them.

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The fall of more important personages is commonly distant from our observation; but, even where it happens under our immediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by which our compassion is weakened.

The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behind them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expectations, by which the distress is complicated beyond the simplicity of pity. But the death of one, who, like Maria, was to shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a

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father, and the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive, and every heart can feel.

On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze as upon those gallery pictures, which strike us with wonder and admiration: domestic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret looks and solitary enjoyment.

The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crowded assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the native dignity of her mien; yet, so tempered was that superiority which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, or the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my senses: I beheld the objects around me as the painting of a dream, and thought of Maria as still living.

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The figure of her father bending over the grave of his darling child; the silent, suffering composure, in which his countenance was fixed; the tears of his attendants, whose grief was light, and capable of tears; these gave me back the truth, and reminded me that I should see her no more. There was a flow of sorrow, with which I suffered myself to be borne along, with a melancholy kind of indulgence; but when her father dropped the cord, with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin chilled my heart, and horror for a moment took place of pity!

It was but for a moment.-He looked eagerly into the grave; made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, who were throwing the earth into it; then, suddenly recollecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes to heaven; and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful, but my sorrow was neither ungentle nor unmanly; I cast on this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity; and on the next, a look of humbleness and hope!

Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid por unthinking for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the

ascetic is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. There needs a certain pliancy of mind, which society alone can give, though its vices often destroy it,—to render us capable of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow pleasant, and affliction useful.

It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are prompted to the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish solitude. These are often the effects rather of passion secluded than repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the bones, if custom has not made them indifferent, will rather chill desire than excite virtue; but, amidst the warmth of social affection, and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the weakness, and enjoy the duties, of humanity.

Perhaps it will be said, that such situations, and such reflections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons they impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much, to the force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice.

I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles, and long-established conduct, are suddenly to be changed by the effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment; but, if it be granted that such change ever took place, who shall determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental impression, it was first begun? And, even if the influence of such a call to thought can only smother, in its birth, one allurement to evil, or confirm one wavering purpose to virtue, I shall not have unjustly commended that occasional indulgence of pensiveness and sorrow, which will thus be rendered not only one of the refinements, but one of the improvements of life.

LESSON LIX.

A Leaf from "The Life of a Looking-Glass."
MISS JANE TAYLOR.

IT being very much the custom, as I am informed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some account of themselves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few particulars of my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of

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