Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;

'Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds, would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gelert's Grave."

153-POWER OF HABIT.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir ?''

"That," he said, "is Niagara River."

"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright and fair and glassy; how far off are the rapids?"

"Only a mile or two," was the reply.

"Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to the enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank: "Young men, ahoy!"

"What is it ?"

"The rapids are below you."

"Ha ha! we have heard of the rapids, but we are not

such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall u with the helm and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed-there is no danger."

"Young men, ahoy there!"

"What is it?"
"The rapids are below

you!"

"Ha ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future! No man ever saw it. Sufficient

for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current.'

"Young men, ahoy!"

"What is it ?"

"Beware! Beware! The rapids are below you!"

Now turn!

Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass that point! Up with the helm! Pull hard! quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives! pull till the blood starts from the nostrils, and the veins stand like whipcords upon your brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail!-ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go!

Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, "When I find out that it is injuring me I will give it up!"

154..-THE UNBELIEVER.

THOMAS CHALMERS.

I pity the unbeliever-one who can gaze upon the grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition. The unbeliever! one whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear, cheerless void. In him, Mind, the god-like gift of intellect—is debased, destroyed; all is dark-a fearful chaotic labyrinth-rayless-cheerless-hopeless! No gleam of light from Heaven penetrates the blackness

of the horrible delusion; no voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps of seraphim arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless; reason is prostrate; and passion, prejudice, and superstition have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect. I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation from on high but a sealed book? He sees nothing above, or around, or beneath him, that evinces the existence of a God; and he denies yea, while standing on the footstool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and denies there is a God.

155.-EXHORTATION TO PRAYER

MARGARET MERCER.

Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed,
Compose thy weary limbs to rest;
For they alone are blest
With balmy sleep

Whom angels keep;

Nor, though by care oppressed,
Or anxious sorrow,

Or thought in many a coil perplexed

For coming morrow,

Lay not thy head

On prayerless bed.

For who can tell, when sleep thine eye shall close,
That earthly cares and woes

To thee may e'er return?
Arouse, my soul!

Slumber control,

And let thy lamp burn brightly:
So shall thine eyes discern
Things pure and sightly;
Taught by the Spirit, learn
Never on prayerless bed
To lay thine unblest head.

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care
That calls for holy prayer?
Has thy day been so bright
That in its flight

There is no trace of sorrow?
And art thou sure to-morrow

Will be like this, and more

Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store
And still make plans for more?
Thou fool! this very night

Thy soul may wing its flight.

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear,
That ploughs the ocean deep,
And when storms sweep
The wintry, lowering sky,

For whom thou wak'st and weepest?
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest,
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer!
For He that slumbereth not is there:
His ear is open to thy cry.

Oh, then on prayerless bed

Lay not thy thoughtless head!

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber!
Till in communion blest

With the elect ye rest,
Those souls of countless number;
And with them raise

The note of praise,
Reaching from Earth to Heaven:
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven!

So lay thy happy head,
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.

156.-RESURRECTION OF ABDULLAH.

FROM THE ARABIC.

He who died at Azim sends
This to comfort all his friends.

Faithful friends! It lies, I know, pale and white and cold as snow,
And ye say,
"Abdullah's dead!" weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears; I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this: "I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie; it was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends, what the women lave, for the last sleep of the grave,
Is a hut which I am quitting, is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage, from which, at last, like a bird, my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room; the wearer, not the garb; the plume
Of the eagle, not the bars that kept him from those splendid stars.
Loving friends! be wise and dry straightway every weeping eye;
What ye left upon the bier is not worth a single tear;
'Tis an empty sea shell, one out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there; the pearl, the all, the soul, is here.

"Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of His treasury, a mind that loved him; let it lie,
Let the shards be earth once more, since the gold is in His store.
Allah glorious! Allah good! now Thy word is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends; yet ye weep, my foolish friends,
While the man whom ye call dead, in unspoken bliss instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true, for the light that shines for you;
But in the light ye cannot see of undisturbed felicity—
In a perfect paradise, and a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends; but not farewell; where I am ye too shall dwell.
I am gone before your face, a moment's worth, a little space;
When ye come where I have stepped, ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by true love taught, that here is all, and there is naught
Weep awhile, if ye are fain; sunshine still must follow rain :
Only not at Death, for Death, now we know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter Life which is of all life centre.
Be ye certain, all seems love viewed from Allah's throne above,
Be ye stout of heart, and come bravely onward to your home.
Sa-il Allah-Allah la! O love divine! O love alway!

He who died at Azim gave
This to those who made his grave.

157-HYMNS.

ART THOU WEARY?

Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distrest?

"Come to Me," saith One, “and coming,
Be at rest."

Hath he marks to lead me to him,
If he be my guide?

"In his feet and hands are wound-prints,
And his side."

Is there diadem, as monarch,

"Yea,

That his brow adorns?

But of thorns.'

If I find him, if I follow,

What his guerdon here?

"Many a sorrow, many a labor,
Many a tear."

If I still hold closely to him,

What hath he at last?

"Sorrow vanquished, labor ended,
Jordan past."

Edwin Arnolá