In the silent midnight watches,
List!-thy bosom-door!

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore !

Say not, 'tis thy pulse's beating;

'Tis thy heart of sin,

'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth:

"Rise, and let me in!"

Death comes down with reckless footstep,

To the hall and hut :

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth;

But thy door is fast!

Grieved, away the Saviour goeth:

Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating

Christ to let thee in,

At the gate of Heaven beating,

Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,

Hast thou then forgot

Jesus waited long to know thee?

But He knows thee not!

A. C. COXE.

Oh, Thou! who in the garden's shade
Didst wake Thy weary ones again,
Who slumber'd in that fearful hour,
Forgetful of Thy pain.

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free,
Nor leave us slumbering in the watch
Our souls should keep with Thee!

J. E. WHITTIER.

We are as barks floating upon the sea,
Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled
The spirit, whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul that slumbers in the dead
Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed
Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,

And, kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall,
And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death a while, yet then
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, to energy, and light again ;

We cannot slumber always in the den

Of sense and selfishness; the day will break-
Ere we for ever leave the haunts of men,

E'en at the parting hour the soul will wake,

Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch who, on his death-bed, hears
Deep in his soul the thundering voice that rings
In one dark dooming moment crimes of years,
And screaming, like a vulture, in his ears,

Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame;
How wild the fury of his soul careers!

His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,

And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame. J. G. PERCIVAL.

Although no impurity in which they can bury their souls, will be able to hide them from the sight of God, yet it will utterly hide God from their sight.

ARCHDEACON HARE.

Chamois Hunter.

-But, whatsoe'er thine ill,
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
Manfred. Do I not bear it ?-Look on me-I live.
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Manf. I tell thee, man, I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the stamp of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Manf. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms and one desert,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

*

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for

mine?

Manf. No, friend!

exchange

I would not wrong thee, nor

My lot with human being: I can bear—
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear—

In life what others could not brook to dream,
But perish in their slumber.

C. Hun.

And with this,

This cautious feeling for another's pain,

Canst thou be black with evil?-Say not so.

Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge
Upon his enemies?

Manf.

Oh no, no, no !

Mine injuries came down on those who loved me—
On those whom I best loved: I never quell'd

An enemy, save in my just defence

But

my embrace was fatal.

C. Hun.

Heaven give thee rest!

And penitence restore thee to thyself.—BYRON.

Thou mild, sad mother-waning moon!

Thy last, low, melancholy ray

Shines toward him. Quit him not so soon!

Mother, in mercy stay!

Despair and death are with him; and canst thou,
With that kind earthward look, go leave him now?

O! thou wast born for things of love,

Making more lovely in thy shine

Whate'er thou look'st on.

In that soft light of thine

Hosts above

Burn softer:-earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. Thou'rt going down!-hast left him unforgiven! RICHARD H. DANA.

Solitude powerfully assists general impressions of religion. When a man finds himself alone in communication with his Creator, his imagination becomes filled with a conflux of awful ideas of the universal agency and invisible presence of that Being; concerning what is likely to become of himself; and of the superlative importance of providing for the happiness of his future existence, by endeavouring to please Him who is the arbiter of his destiny; which, whenever they gain admittance, for a season overwhelm all others, and leave, when they depart, a solemnity upon the thoughts that will seldom fail in some degree to affect the conduct of life. PALEY.

As the body perceives by the sense of feeling changes of temperature in the air, and as the mind is chilled or exhilarated in the atmosphere of society; so conscience in the soul is the power of perceiving the presence and warmth of God's Spirit-an atmosphere of truth and love, encircling souls. The first conscious spiritual sensation of His presence may be startling, like the impression of the air upon an infant at the moment of its birth.

The Spirit of God lies touching, as it were, the soul of man-ever around and near. On the outside of earth

E