O, Babylon! daughter of heaven! empress of nations! glory of all lands! long shalt thou reign supreme, and control the destinies of the world. No power can harm thee-none dare dispute the mandates of thy will. Thy greatness and thy prosperity shall endure long as the stars, in which thy wise men read thy fate, shall glitter in the heavens. And thou, Belshazzar! greatest of princes! son of Belus! inferior only to the holy gods!— long shall thy hand hold the sceptre, and the nobles of earth stand in awe of thy majesty. Long and happy shall thy reign be, greatest of princes!

Words such as these fell from the lips of the lords of the kingdom on that festival night. The mighty monarch of Babylon listened to the adulation, pleased, delighted; and as his flatterers ceased, a smile of approbation overspread his brow.

Silence reigns in those halls-all eyes are turned to the throne; anon the proud Belshazzar speaks: "In the temple of Belus are the sacred vessels, the trophies of my grandsire's conquest in Palestina ;-bring them to the feast."

They are brought-the vessels of silver and gold, once consecrated to the service of Jehovah, and employed by holy hands in the temple on Mount Zion. They are brought, the proudest emblems of the success of the Babylonian arms, the perpetual monuments of their national greatness. They are broughtthey are placed upon that board, and the king and his princes profanely drink from them in triumph. As the wine passes round, the voice of revelry increases. They praise their deities of gold, of silver, and of brass, and blaspheme the God of the Hebrews. It is a proud night for Babylon and her king. Her measure of glory is full.

But see! on the wall of the palace a hand unearthly appearsChaldea's king beholds it-his countenance turns suddenly pale, and he trembles with terror. There it is, that spectre-hand; and over the gorgeous candlestick it writes on the wall. Slowly it is withdrawn. Oh! what has it written? Are they words of peace? That spectre hand! does it good or ill forebode?

Proud monarch, thou shalt know! MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. In these fatal words read the destiny of her who

has said, "I sit as the queen of nations, and my reign is for ever." Belshazzar! thou art weighed in the balance and art found wanting. The spectre hand has written thy death-warrant. This night thou shalt be slain, and to-morrow's sun shall behold the mighty Babylon humbled at the feet of the prince of Media!

HOME.

BY REV. J. N. DANFORTH.

This is a sweet word. Who is not charmed with its music? Who hath not felt the potent magic of its spell?

By home I do not mean the house, the parlor, the fireside, the carpet, or the chairs. They are inert material things, which derive all their interest from the idea of the home which is their locality. Home is something more ethereal, less tangible, not easily described, yet strongly conceived-the source of some of the deepest emotions of the soul, grasping the heart-strings with such a sweet and tender force as subdues all within the range of its influence.

Home is the palace of the husband and the father. He is the monarch of that little empire, wearing a crown that is the gift of heaven, swaying a sceptre put into his hands by the Father of all, acknowledging no superior, fearing no rival, and dreading no usurper. In him dwells love-the ruling spirit of home. She that was the fond bride of his youthful heart is the affectionate wife of his maturer years.

The star that smiled on their bridal eve has never set. Its rays still shed a serene lustre on the horizon of home. There, too, is the additional ornament of home-the circle of children; beautifully represented by the spirit of inspiration as "olive plants round about the table." We have been such. There was our cradle. That cradle was rocked by a hand ever open to supply

our wants; watched by an eye ever awake to the approach of danger. Many a livelong night has that eye refused to be closed for thy sake, reader, when thou, a helpless child, wast indebted to a mother's love, sanctified by heaven's blessing, for a prolonged existence through a sickly infancy. Hast thou ever grieved that fond heart? No tears can be too freely-too sincerely shed for such an offence against the sweet charities of home. If there was joy in the palace at thy birth, oh, never let it be turned into sorrow by any violation of the sacred laws of home. We that had our happy birth, like most of the human race, in the country, can recall many tender and pleasant associations of home. There is earnest poetry in this part of our life. We remember with delight the freshness of the early morn; the tuneful and sprightly walk among the dewy fields; the cool repose amid the sequestered shades of the grove, vocal with the music of nature's inimitable warblers; the "tinkling spring," where we slaked our thirst with the pellucid waters as they came from the hand of the Mighty One-the bleating of the flocks, the lowing of the herds, the humming of the bees, the cry of the whippoorwill, the melancholy, monotonous song of the night bird, relieved only by the deep bass of that single note which he uttered as he plunged from his lofty height into a lower region of atmosphere— these are among our recollections of home. And they come softened and sobered through the medium of the past, but without losing their power to touch the heart and still endear that word home.

There too, perhaps, we saw a father die; having attained to a patriarchal age, he bowed himself on his bed, saying, "Behold I die, but God shall be with you," and was gathered to his people. Nor can the memory ever forget that mother in her meek and quiet old age, walking through many a peaceful year on the verge of heaven, breathing its atmosphere, inhaling its fragrance, and reflecting its light and holy beauty, till at length she left the sweet home of earth for her Father's home in heaven.

"So gently dies the wave upon the shore."

Home, too, is the scene of the gay and joyous bridal. When

the lovely daughter, affianced to the youth of her heart, stands up to take the irrevocable pledge-what an interesting moment! I saw, not long since, such an one. She stood unconscious of the blended charm which innocence and beauty threw around her face and person; her soft, smooth, polished forehead was circled with a wreath of flowers; her robe was of purest white, and in her hand was held a bouquet of variegated roses. Beside her stood the happy man, for whom she was to be

"A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,

"Doubling his pleasures and his care dividing."

As I pronounced the words that made them one, adding the nuptial benediction, a tear fell from the eye of the bride on the wreath in her hand! It was a tribute to "home, sweet home." Not that she loved father and mother less, but husband more. That piece of music, "The Bride's Farewell," plunges deeper into the fountain of emotion in the soul than any other combination of thought and song to which I ever listened. Was the bride ever found who was equal to its performance on the day of her espousals-or rather in the hour of her departure from her long-loved home, when the time had arrived to bid farewell to father, mother, brother and sister? Perhaps in looking at the picture of domestic life, as exhibited in such circumstances, we should not omit to notice some of the least prominent traits and coloring, for they never escape the keen and practiced eye of the true poet. Thus Rogers, in his graphic and natural poem of Human Life, in which he snatches so many graces "beyond the reach of art," does not, in describing the wedding scene, forget the younger portion of the family, even the little daughter, so often the gem and the joy of home.

"Then are they blest indeed, and swift the hours
"Till her young sisters wreathe her hair in flowers,
"Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the least

"Twitches her robes, then runs behind the rest,

Known by her laugh, that will not be suppressed."

But even this picture must be shaded. If the cradle be one of the things of home, so is the coffin! The bridal robe is, alas!

too often succeeded by the funeral pall. "Six years ago," heard I the minister of God say at the funeral of a young and lovely member of a friend's family, "she who lies there stood here to take the marriage vows. She is now the bride of Death." Striking thought! How short the passage from the home of love and felicity to the grave! A few years since I sat amid a domestic circle of father, mother, three sons and a daughter. It was the home of hospitality. Where are they now? The solemn churchyard will tell. They have all sunk into the long, dreamless repose of the grave. Silent are those halls that once echoed to the cheerful sound of their voices. They have gone to their "long home." And we follow. In the fine language of Paul, "it becomes those who have wives, to be as though they had none, and those that weep, as though they wept not, and those that rejoice, as though they rejoiced not,"―let us add, and those who have a home, to be as though they had none; for "the fashion of this world passeth away!"

Jour. Com.

AN INQUISITIVE BOY.

Travelling some years ago in Alabama, I stopped at nightfall (as usual with wayfarers in that and the adjoining States) at the first house I came to. Stranger as I was, and ephemeral as our acquaintance was likely to be, the rude, yet open-hearted people soon made me as much at home as possible, and before our unsophisticated supper of bacon, "corn-dodgers," wild honey and clabber was half over, I was as much in their confidence as if I had known them for years. Most familiar with me, and most in my good graces, was the youngest son of my host,—an intelligent little fellow, clad only in the simplest "of all possible" tunics, and numbering, it may be, some six or seven summers. His face was one of the most intellectual, as well as the most in want of soap and water, that I have ever met with among children of his age. When, in the course of my conversation with his pa