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Then like an Até, bent on deeds of ill,
She blasted Eden in the morn of bliss;

And scarce had Earth smil'd to the new-born sun,
When through her works she felt the bitter pang,
And trembling sigh'd that all her peace was lost.
E'er since that fatal hour, fierce Discord walks
Her fairest scenes, and turns her loveliest bowers
To demons' haunts. Death, famine, pain and woe,
Her close attendants, follow in her train,
And make a shamble of our fallen world!
See continents in wild commotion mov'd,
While fierce Bellona drives her thund'ring car;
And how do names like Cæsar, Attila,
Napoleon, Alexander, charm the world!
These, sons of strife, her shameless bastardy,
Reverse the order of the skies-wait not
For immortality beyond the grave,
But seek it here, on earth, and seek it, too,
By blood. The necks of millions pave their way
To fame; and more illustrious they are held
The deeper they are dyed with human gore.
O scene of gloomy horror! dark despair!
Has Virtue no attraction? Is there no

Centre in the moral world?

Shall matter

Move by reg'lar laws around some central
Power, and mind, which shall survive the dying
Embers of the stars, driven by passion's gale,
Fly off unbalanc'd from its proper sphere,
No longer drawn by mild attraction round
Creation's immaterial Sun, the source
Of being, bliss, and endless happiness?
What plea has man to offer for his crimes?
Casts he his eye upon the arch above?
His condemnation's writ in ev'ry star!
Does he survey all beauteous nature o'er?
There he perceives one tuneful harp, warbling
In sweet, melodious notes its Maker's praise,
And he himself the alone discordant string.
But man, though formed with face erect to read
The moral lessons of the skies, regards
With scorn the lecture they're designed to give.
Their lesson has grown old, so often read,
But never understood, except by few.
But, why so much of glittering stars,
Their harmony, and nature's music sweet?
In strains more audible than ever burst
From nature's groves, were sung the lays of peace:
Ye years roll back and to remembrance bring,
That night so calm, so lovely, and serene:
Sound slept the winds; the moon rose bright among
The starry host: the towers of Solyma
Reflected forth her silver light; the hills
With more majestic grandeur reared their heads,
And Carmel's flowery top in smiles was seen;
Siloa's brook in softer murmurs flow'd,
And all around gave signs of joy, as if
Expectant of some great event.

When lo! sweet notes are heard, and music fills
The air. A band in heavenly splendors rob'd
Appears. Their song was, "Peace on earth, good will
To men;" and when back to heaven they wing'd
Their flight, their notes still lingered in the sky,
And died, at length, harmonious round the Babe.
These angels sung the advent of the Prince
Of Peace, and he, e'er he ascended high,
Bequeath'd to earth this legacy divine,

"My peace I leave:" through all the world proclaim The joyful news. The Gospel is the law

Of love; it is the ethics of the skies;
The transcript of the Eternal Mind to man!
O purifying code! how far beyond
The heathen page is thy philosophy.
Why talk of Plato, Zeno, Socrates,
The Stagyrite? They taught revenge for wrong.
Forgiveness is thy theme; and love to all
Thy great command, on which all virtue hangs.
With voice more gentle than Favonian breeze,
Thou calm'st the passions of the human breast,
And to the dark Tiberias of our world
Say'st, "Peace be still," and all its storms subside.
Where'er thy flying angel spreads his wings,
There drops of peace descend, and innocence
Again from heaven returns and dwells with men.
The Arab lifts his deadly lance no more;
The Turk lays down his bloody scimetar;
The Jew forgets to scorn; the Greek to scoff;
The Roman and the Gaul together walk;
The Russ and Pole each other brothers hail;
The haughty Spaniard and Peruvian kiss;
The European and Indian humbly bend
On knees of pray'r, and worship rev'rently;
The Tartar and Chinese forget their wall,
And Thibet smiles upon the high Attay.
Primeval Peace! thy kingdom yet shall come!
Already breaks the dawn so often sung
By holy bards of old, when free'd from crime
The joyous earth shall own thy blessed reign;
And o'er her plains the lion and the lamb,
The child and asp shall sport rejoicingly;
When Kedar's wilderness shall lift its voice:
The distant islands join the notes of praise;
The Andes and the Himmaleh repeat
The gladdening accents to the bending skies;
And Ganges, Amazona, prince of streams,
Shall roll the numbers on their waves, and round
The earth the song shall burst: "The thousand years
Have come; now heaven-born peace and mercy
reign."

O, WHAT a glory doth this world put on

For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the fallen leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.

THE FUTURE.

BY A. HILL.

DARK and portentous Future, in thy womb
What fearful mysteries remain concealed!
The cloud that hangs upon thy awful front,
Concealing from the eye of mortals things to come,

Is black as midnight, when no star appears.
In vain we stretch our eager gaze to catch
A glimpse of thy profound and hidden secrets:
In vain we seek to lift the sable pall
That dims our vision, and obstructs the sight.
The solemn drapery that thus conceals thy form
Was hung around thee by the omniscient One,
Whose piercing glance alone can rend the vail.
And there it hangs, mysterious as the cloud
That led the Israelites, and hid the brow
Of hoary Sinai from their wondering gaze.
Divinity enshrined, Godhead concealed,

Although so dark-"dark through excess of light”—
Is no more dark than thou.

What wonder then,

If man's weak brain should whirl, and giddy turn,
When he assays to look thee in thy face.
Could he but see thee as thou art-could he
But fathom thy profoundest depths, and bend
The circle of his sweeping vision 'round,
And watch the heavings of thy mighty breast,
His face would gather paleness, and his limbs
Would tremble, as the haughty monarch's did
To whom thou didst reveal one single blaze
Of burning light upon his palace wall:

He could not "see thee face to face and live."

*

There have been holy men, in ages past,

Who, favored much, and highly prized of heaven,
Receiving strength divine, have stood within
Thy swelling portals, and beheld the long,
Long vista, whose vast cycles sweep the shores
Of God's eternity.

Those days are past.
It is not now the same. The prophet's eye
Is dim-the vision seal'd-the crowded train
Of strange developments comes rolling on.
The burdened future comes, silent but swift-
Moment on moment presses-sand on sand.
O, wondrous Future! vast, and deep, and dark!
Thy heaving breast with each pulsation throbs,
As if thy mighty heart did palpitate

With fear.

The real, veritable now-
The fading past, that memory calls up-
The farthest past, where memory runneth not,
Hath its account with thee.

And they will come,
The long-lost ones, that sleep in death's embrace,
From him who first did fall, sad victim of
His brother's murderous hate, to him on whom

The monster king shall hold his last sad feastAll, all shall come; and thou, with each and all, Grave settlement must have.

O, thrilling hour! When crime his victim meets, and man his God.

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TO THE MEMORY OF DR. FISHBACK.

BY MRS. LAWSON.

"If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius called too soon away;
Of light from this world taken while it shone,
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;
How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be,
Flow forth, O thou, of many gifts, for thee!"

How shall we mourn thee-sainted one!
How thy pure mem❜ry trace
Indelibly upon our hearts,

That earth may not efface.

Bring garlands-hang his resting place
With a fresh gathered wreath;
Bring flowers and strew above his form,
In his last home of death.

Bring music from a thrilling strain,
Like to his pleadings here;
Enshrine in every swelling note
His memory all too dear.
Though broken be the living lyre,

All hushed its tuneful strings;
The echoes which his genius wake
Outlive all earthly things.

Thanks be to God who gave thee thus
A light along our way;
Whose holy faith and fervent love
Point to a perfect day.

The highest style of mortal mold

In thee we saw combined;

And when we reach th' immortal shores, Like spirits we shall find.

O, in eternities bright morn,

The ransomed gathered home! Earth's benefactor shalt thou stand, In peace before the throne.

NOTICES. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. The Text divided into Chapters, with an Introduction, &c. By Stephen B. Wickens. New York: Lane & Tippett.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, with a Life of J. Bunyan. By R. Southey, Esq., LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Mr. Cheever's lectures upon Bunyan seem to have created an increased demand for the Pilgrim's Progress. Many new editions have been published; some of them in such elegant style as to attract the eyes of the fashionable, and secure an honorable position upon the centre-tables of the rich. There is a class of readers who look more at the outside than the inside of a book, and who, by the attractions of gilt edges, good engravings, and Turkey morocco, can be made to seize upon works which they once discarded as too gross for a refined taste. Glad are we, then, to see the Pilgrim's Progress in good dress.

A few days since we sat down, for the first time, to the perusal of this noted work; and we would say much about it, but for the consideration that what is new to ourselves, is, perhaps, old even to our youngest reader. We limit ourselves, therefore, to a few general remarks.

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for a minister's theology. This is encouraging to ourselves. Though we are fond of learning, and are striving, with at least sufficient zeal, to increase our little stock, and encourage our juniors in the ministry to do likewise; and although we entertain the hope that the time is not distant when every Methodist minister will be a respectable scholar, yet, in regard to systematic theology, we confess our knowledge is very limited, and that we have no desire to extend it. When the Almighty makes a system of divinity, we will study it. As for commentaries, we have but part of one: that was presented to us by a friend, and it is kept as a memento. When we can be persuaded that four or five hundred weight of books is necessary to enable us to understand the Bible, we shall pray to the divine Being to give us a new edition, revised and enlarged; for if supreme wisdom has failed to make a book intelligible to mortal, can we expect that fallible wisdom can make a commentary sufficiently luminous to explain it? May we not fear that, in the effort, commentary will succeed commentary ad infinitum? If God will forgive the world for the theology and commentaries it has already made, it ought surely to promise to make no

more.

When the Jews neglected the Old Testament, and relied upon the commentaries of their Rabbis, they became blind to the prophecies, deaf to the precepts, and insensible to the spirit of religion. When the Church

monks to explain it to her, she sunk down into the dark ages. Important theological errors generally originate at the famed seats of theological lore. We do not wish to be understood that the scholar has no advantages in the study of the Scriptures, and we think that every minister would do well to acquaint himself with the languages in which they were originally written, and study Biblical antiquities with diligence and care. We are far from insinuating that the Bible requires no in

tration.

Though fiction, it is not only harmless, but calculated to make a deep religious impression. It is but an expansion of our Savior's parable of the sower and the seed; and with admirable skill does it delineate the various classes of Christians which that parable presents. Hopeful, Christian, Talkative, and many others, are well conceived and well sustained. There are faults in the style and the language, incongruities in the allegory, and discrepancies in the plot; but they are scarce noticeable, so abounding and charming are the excellences. Vain would be the efforts of criticism to condemn the work. It has stood the test of ages, and passed unrivaled through hosts of imitators. It is tinctured with enthusiasm and bigotry; but when we consider the ignorance in which the author was reared, the character of the times in which he lived, and the persecutions which he suffered at the period he was writing, we are astonished that it does not manifest more that is objectionable.

and prayerfully to sound its depths. Let him bring into requisition all the aids at his command; but let not his mind be warped by a previous study of "systems of divinity," or cramped by the commentaries of one who has written with a particular system in his eye. We believe that a man of no critical learning can educe from the Bible every thing essential to salvation, and we think Wesley was right when he sent forth holy, sensible men, conscious of a call to preach, having only King James' translation of the holy Scriptures, from which to draw their lessons. Familiar with its narratives, penetrated with its mysteries, wrapped in the vision of its seers, and imbued with the spirit of its author, they, like Bunyan, could perform the highest functions of the ministry as with the Holy Ghost sent down from heaven. While Protestants contend that the Bible is the rule of faith, and condemn the Catholic because he makes the voice of the Church that rule, they should be careful not to set up a rule far worse-the systematic divinity of particular sects. We would by no means discard works illustrating the cardinal doctrines of the Bible, which lie upon its surface, and are essential to

spired. Yet Bunyan was no divine in the ordinary acceptation of the term. A poor ignorant soldier, he relied upon common sense and the Bible for his theology. Behold a striking illustration of an important truth! The human heart and the Bible are sufficient

heart and the Bible is of itself sufficient to make a useful minister of any man called of God to preach the Gospel. Still a knowledge of science, literature, and the world may make him more useful by extending the sphere of his operation, and giving him variety in illustration.