roses of their pilgrim path, and speaking with divine authority of Him who is the 'resurrection and the life,' adds desolation to that weeping with` which man goeth downward to his dust.

But with heaviness of an unspoken and peculiar nature was this victim of vice borne from the home that he troubled, and laid by the side of his son, to whose tender years he had been an unnatural enemy. There was sorrow among all who stood around his grave, and it bore features of that sorrow which is without hope.

The widowed mourner was not able to raise her head from the bed when the bloated remains of her unfortunate husband were committed to the earth. Long and severe sickness ensued, and in her convalescence a letter was received from her brother, inviting her and her child to an asylum under his roof, and appointing a period to come and conduct them on their homeward journey.

With her little daughter, the sole remnant of her wrecked heart's wealth, she returned to her kindred. It was with emotions of deep and painful gratitude that she bade farewell to the inhabitants of that infant settlement, whose kindness,

through all her adversities, had never failed. And when they remembered the example of uniform patience and piety which she had exhibited, and the saintlike manner in which she had sustained her burdens, and cherished their sympathies, they felt as if a tutelary spirit had departed from among them.

In the home of her brother, she educated her daughter in industry, and that contentment which virtue teaches. Restored to those friends with whom the morning of life had passed, she shared with humble cheerfulness the comforts that earth had yet in store for her; but in the cherished sadness of her perpetual widowhood, in the bursting sighs of her nightly orison, might be traced a sacred and deep-rooted sorrow-the memory of her erring husband, and the miseries of unreclaimed intemperance.

HARTFORD, CONN.

L. H. S.

E

PAUL BEFORE THE AREOPAGUS.

COME to the Hill of Mars, for he is there,

That wondrous man, whose eloquence doth touch

The heart like living flame. With brow unblanch'd And eye of fearless ardour, he confronts

That high tribunal, with its pen of flint,

Whose irreversible decree made pale

The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near—
Fickle, and warm of heart, and fond of change,
And full of strangers, and of those who pass
Life in the idle toil, to hear or tell

Of some new thing. See, thither throng the bands
Of Epicurus, wrapt in gorgeous robe,

Who seem with bright and eager eyes to ask,

• What will this babbler say.' With front austere

Stand a dark group of stoics, sternly proud,

And predetermined to confute; but still

'Neath the deep wrinkles of their settled brow
Lurks some unwonted gathering of their powers,
As for no common foe. With angry frown
Stalk the fierce cynics, anxious to condemn,
And prompt to punish; while the patient sons
Of gentle Plato bind the listening soul
To search for wisdom, and with reason's art
Build the fair argument.

Behold the throngs

Press on the speaker-drawing still more close,
In denser circles, as his thrilling tones

Speak of the God who warneth every where

Men to repent,' and of that fearful day

When he shall judge the world.

wakes,

Loud tumult

The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells,

And that blest voice is silenced. They have mocked
The ambassador of Heaven, and he departs

From their wild circle. But his graceful hand
Points to an altar with its mystic scroll—

'The Unknown God.'

Ah, Athens! is it so?

Thou who didst crown thyself with woven rays
As a divinity, and called the world

Thy pilgrim-worshipper; dost thou confess

Such ignorance and shame? The Unknown God!
Why all thy hillocks and resounding streams
Do boast their deity; and every house,

Yea, every heart that beats within thy walls,
May choose its temple and its priestly train,
Victim, and garland, and appointed rite; ·
Thou mak'st the gods of every realm thine own,
Fostering with boundless hospitality

All forms of idol-worship. Can it be
That still ye found not Him who is so near
To every one of us,-in whom we live,
And move, and have a being? He of whom
Thy tuneful poets spake with childlike awe?
And thou, Philosophy, whose art refined
Did aim to pierce the labyrinth of Fate,
And compass with thy fine-spun sophist web
This mighty universe, didst thou fall short
Of the Upholding Cause?

The Unknown God!

Thou who didst smile to find an awe-struck world

Crouch to thee as a pupil; wert thou blind?

Blinder than he who in his humble cot,

With hardened hand, his daily labour done,