among them in the simple majesty of his birth-right, as a ruler and priest, to guide his people in the way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of the sainted one had descended upon him, as if those ashen lips had broken the seal of death to utter, 'behold my servant whom I have chosen.' Every eye fixed upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gradually the families retired to their respective habitations. Each individual paused at the pillow of the patriarch, to take the silent farewell; and some of the little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face.

I was left alone with him whom I had first known as the lay-reader, and with the dead. The enthusiasm of the moment fled, and the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed like a tide over his memory. The distant scenes of infancy and childhood, the toils of maturity, the planting of that wild waste, the changes of those years which had sprinkled his temples with grey hairs: all, with their sorrows and their joys, came associated with the lifeless image of his beloved sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he covered his face and wept. That iron frame, which had borne the hardening of more than half a century, shook like the breast of an infant, when it sobs out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock had subsided,

and then repeated, passing my arm gently within his, 'I heard a voice from heaven, saying, Write, from henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.' Instantly raising himself, he replied, in a voice whose deep inflections sank into my soul, 'even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.'

I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the patriarch. In the heart of their territory, was a shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded by a neat enclosure, and planted with trees. The drooping branches of a willow swept the grave of the mother of the colony. Near her slumbered her youngest son. Several other mounds rose around them, most of which, by their small size, spoke of the smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly company, we bore him who had been revered as the father and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his descendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing among the more tender of the train; but when the burial service commenced, all was hushed. And never have I more fully realized its surpassing beauty and power, than when from the centre of that deep solitude, on the brink of that waiting grave, it poured forth its pathos, its sublimity, its consolation.

'Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower, he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we seek succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but spare us, O Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.'

Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning community, immediately after committing the dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accompanied me to some distance on my journey, and our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them as their forms mingled with the dark green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear voice. It was the reader, speaking of the hope of the resurrection: 'if we believe that Christ died and rose again, even so them also that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.'

Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way.

Musing, I inquired, is devotion never incumbered by the splendour that surrounds her? Amid the lofty cathedral, the throng of rich-stoled worshippers, the melody of the solemn organ, does that incense never waste itself upon the earth, which should ascend to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and seal itself up, and go no more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith?

Yet surely there is a reality in religion, though man may cheat himself with its shadow. Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of 'all pomp and circumstance,' yet with power to soothe the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory to the soul when death vanquishes the body. So, I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished and grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance of the everliving faith of those few sheep in the wilderness.'

S

TYRE.

AGES have died since the seers of old,
Oh Tyrus, the fall of thy pride foretold;
Ages have passed, and we muse on thee
As a broken waste 'neath the desert sea;
Thy temples have sunk in the waters down,
Oblivion rests on thine old renown:

Thou art crushed-thou art faded-thy strength is o'er,
Thy glory and beauty will gleam no more.

Where are the piles which, in days gone by,
From thy streets aspir'd in the lofty sky?
Where is thy broidered Egyptian sail,
Which shone of yore in the summer gale?
Where are the spices, the pearl, the gold,
Which once in thy marts did their wealth unfold?