when nature meets thee in all its magnificence or beauty, thy heart humbleth itself in adoration before the hand which made it, and rejoiceth in the contemplation of the wisdom by which it is maintained; if, when revelation unvails her mercies, and the Son of God comes forth to give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follows with astonishment the glories of his path, and pours at last over his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed; if thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over the grave, and entereth on the wings of faith into that heaven "where he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on High," and seeth the "society of angels and of the spirits of just men made perfect," and listeneth to the "everlasting song which is sung before the throne;" if such are the meditations in which thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, for all that life can offer thee in exchange, these solitary joys. The world which is before thee, the world which thine imagination paints in such brightness, has no pleasures to bestow that can compare with these. And all that its boasted wisdom can produce, has nothing so acceptable in the sight of Heaven, as this pure offering of thy soul. In these days, "the Lord himself is thy shepherd, and thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the still waters" of youth, he now makes "thy soul to repose." But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its trials; the evil days are on the wing, when" thou shalt say thou hast no pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance," the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it is to "remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." In these days of trial or of awe, "his Spirit shall be with you," and thou shalt fear no ill; and, amid every evil which surrounds you, "he shall restore thy soul. His goodness and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy life;" and when at last the "silver cord is loosed, thy spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt dwell in the house of the Lord for ever." ALISON. LESSON XLIX. INVITATION TO THE YOUNG. REMEMBER now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, While the evil days come not, Nor the years draw nigh, When thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. While the sun, or the light, Or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, Nor the clouds return after a rain: In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, And the strong men shall bow themselves, And the grinders shall cease because they are few, And those that look out of the windows be darkened; When the sound of the grinding is low, And he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, And all the daughters of music shall be brought low: Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, And fears shall be in the way, And the almond tree shall flourish, And the grasshopper shall be a burden, And desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home And the mourners go about the streets. Or ever the silver cord be loosed, Or the golden bowl be broken, Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, Or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, ECCLESIASTES. They that seek me early shall find me." COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding, Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Then will the crosses of this brief existence Though o'er its dust the curtained grave is closing; W. G. CLARK. LESSON L. PRISONER'S EVENING SERVICE. A Scene of the French Revolution. D'AUBIGNE, an aged royalist, and BLANCHE, his daughter. I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father? Will they not D'Aubigne. Yes, my poor child! They send us home. B. Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire, And the gray turret of our own chateau, The loving laughter in their children's eyes, D'A. Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace And recognizes, in submissive awe, The summons of his God. B. Thou dost not mean No, no! it cannot be! They sent us home? Didst thou not say, D'A. Where is the spirit's home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power? We must look up to God, and calmly die. Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile, In the still courage of a woman's heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche? B. Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms! Father! D'A. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go; Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, And they that love their God, have all been swept, Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steeped In noble blood, the temples are gone down; The sound of prayer is hushed, or fearfully Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit forever the dishonored soil, The burdened air? Our God upon the cross, B. A dark and fearful way! An evil doom for thy dear honored head! Oh! thou, the kind, and gracious! whom all eyes Blessed, as they looked upon! Speak yet again! Say, will they part us? D'A. No, my Blanche; in death We shall not be divided. B. Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me. I shall see His light before me to the last. And when Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child! D'A. Oh! swiftly now, And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour As yet I know not. Each low, throbbing pulse Eternity. B. My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again D'.A. If I may speak through tears, There springing up, with soft light round thee shed, I bless thee! He will bless thee! In his love B. Now is there strength Infused through all my spirit. I can rise D'A. Seest thou, my child, Yon faint light in the west? The signal star Of our due evening service, gleaming in Through the close dungeon grating? Mournfully |