might be still more certain of the actual continuance of his life, and then tardily I slipped away. To my joy, I still found, in the eternal youth of Nature, beautiful references to his lengthened age; from the everlasting rippling of the brook in the meadow, to a late swarm of bees, which had settled themselves on a linden-tree, probably in the forenoon, before two o'clock, as if, by taking their lodging with him, he was to be their bee-father, and continue to live. Every star twinkled to me a hope.

I went to the orchard very early in the morning, wishing to look upon the aged man in sleep ; death's ancient prelude, the warm dream of cold death. But he was reading, and had read, in his large-printed Bible, far beyond the Deluge, as I could see by the engravings. I held it to be a duty not to interrupt his solitude long. I told him I was going away, and gave him a little farewell billet, instead of farewell words. I was much moved, though silent. It was not the kind of emotion with which we take leave of a friend, or a youth, or an old man; it was like parting from a remote stranger-being, who scarcely glances at us from the high, cold clouds which hold him between the earth and the sun. There is a stillness of soul which resembles the stillness of bodies on a frozen sea, or on high mountains; every loud tone is an interruption too prosaically harsh, as in the softest adagio. Even those words, "for the last time,"

the old man had long since left behind him. Yet he hastily presented to me my favorite flower, a blue Spanish vetch, in an earthen pot. This butterfly-flower is the sweeter, inasmuch as it so easily exhales its perfume and dies. He said he had not yet sung the usual morning-hymn, which followed the survival of his death-evening; and he begged me not to take it amiss that he did not accompany me, or even once look after me, especially as he could not see very well. He then added, almost with emotion, "O friend, may you live virtuously! We shall meet again, where my departed relatives will be present, and also that great preacher, whose name I have forgotten. We meet again."

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He turned immediately, quite tranquilly, to his organ. I parted from him, as from a life. He played on his organ beneath the trees, and his face was turned toward me; but to his dim eyes I knew that I should soon become as a motionless cloud. So I remained until he began his morning hymn, from old Neander:

"The Lord still leaves me living,

I hasten Him to praise;

My joyful spirit giving,

He hears my early lays.”

While he was singing, the birds flew round him; the dogs accustomed to the music, were silent; and it even wafted the swarm of bees into their hive. Bowed down as he was by age, his figure

was so tall, that from the distance where I stood he looked sufficiently erect. I remained until the old man had sung the twelfth and last verse of his morning hymn :

"Ready my course to finish,

And come, O God, to Thee;
A conscience pure I cherish,
Till death shall summon me."

NOTHING of God's making can a man love rightly, without being the surer of God's loving himself; neither the moon, nor the stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a bird. Not the least grateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns that have come to my lips while I have been listening to the birds of an evening. Only let us love what God loves, and then His love of ourselves will feel certain, and the sight of his face we shall be sure of; and immortality, and heaven, and the freedom of the universe, will be as easy for us to believe in, as a father's giving good gifts to his children. - MOUNTFORD.

MILTON'S HYMN OF PATIENCE.

I

BY ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.

AM old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown; Afflicted, and deserted of my kind,

Yet I am not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;

I murmur not, that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father supreme! to thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then thou art most near;
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place;
And there is no more night.

I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown;

My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself, thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred; here

Can come no evil thing.

O, I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been; Wrapped in the radiance from the sinless land, Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go;

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,

When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from paradise refresh my brow,-
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture! waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit! strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.