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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.
L. H. S.
PAUL BEFORE THE AREOPAGUS.
COME to the Hill of Mars, for he is there,
That wondrous man, whose eloquence doth touch
That high tribunal, with its pen of flint,
The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near-
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
Behold the throngs
When he shall judge the world.
The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells,
'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
All forms of idol-worship. Can it be
And move, and have a being? He of whom
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,