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of the congregation, repaired with him to his house. But he was soon summoned to a neighboring farm-house, to view a touching spectacle. "A message," says he, "arrived from Mr. Northend's, requesting an immediate visit from the Rev. Mr. The reason

assigned for requesting the visit that night, was, that he feared he should not be alive on the morrow. The request was, of course, immediately complied with." Mr. Northend was found lying on his death-bed: a venerable old man "with locks as white as the snowwhite pillow upon which his head rested." His children and his grand-children are assembled. The clergyman draws near the sick man's couch, and the aged follower of Jesus says, "My desire is to receive once more before I die, if it be the Lord's will, 'the sacrament of the body and blood of Christ." The solemn service is performed. And among those who then received the consecrated elements, are two sons and the only surviving daughter of Mr. Northend. "If you will now," said the sick man," administer the sacrament of baptism to my grand-children, I will withdraw my thoughts from earth and rest them in the bosom of my God."" The performance of this service acts on the venerable believer's soul, as if by inspiration. He now rises in his bed, and solemnly confers his benediction on his children and his grand-children, in the name of God. The youngest child, bearing his own name, Henry Northend, at his request is placed upon his lap. He lays his hand upon the infant, and ejaculates: "The God of my fathers, the great and merciful God, bless you, my child, and all of you my children. With great desire have I desired to see this hour; it has often been the subject of my prayer since lying upon this bed of sickness, and my prayer has been answered. Surely," continued he, addressing himself to the minister, "God has sent you here to baptize these little ones, and to administer to my children the pledges of a Saviour's dying love. Yea, and furthermore, to bury me." He then descanted on his past life-the blessed ordinance of baptism-the condescending kindness of God--of the rapid approach of death--of the glorious and exalted appearance of the Saviour, at considerable length; but, the effort, necessary for the utterance of all his glorious thoughts, was overpowering; and the patriarch, as he sunk down upon his pillow, fell asleep in Jesus. After prayer the clergyman and Mr. Heyden left the weeping circle, and went homeward. It was nearly midnight. The sky was cloudless. The moon moved on through the resplendent vault of heaven most gloriously; around it twinkled ten thousand bright stars. The waters of Ontario stretched before us like a sea of glory, beautifully irradiated beneath the soft and mellow rays of the orb of night. Not a sound was heard save the gentle ripple that played over the surface of the lake. We had left the house of death. The scene around us was calculated to perpetuate the deep and solemn feeling that had been already excited. At length as we passed on, Mr. Heyden pointing to the heavens, said, "Henry Northend has gone to yonder bright world, and will shine like one of those stars in the kingdom of his master for ever and ever,"

(To be Continued.)

POETRY.

THE RAINBOW.

The evening was glorious, and light through the trees,
Plays the sun-shine and rain drops, the birds and the breeze;
The landscape outstretching in loveliness, lay

On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May.

For the Queen of the Spring, as she pass'd down the vale,
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale;
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours,
And flush in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers.
The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd
O'er the west threw their splendor of azure and gold;
But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and increased,
Till its margin of black touch'd the zenith, and east.
We gazed on the scenes, while around us they glow'd,
When a vision of beauty appear'd on the cloud;-
'Twas not like the Sun, as at mid-day we view,
Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through starlight and blue:
Like a Spirit, it came in the van of a storm!

-

And the eye, and the heart, hail'd its beautiful form?
For it looked not severe, like an Angel of Wrath,
But its garment of brightness illum'd its dark path.
In the hues of its grandeur, sublimely it stood,
O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood;
And river, field, village, and woodlands grew bright,
As conscious they gave and afforded delight.

'Twas the bow of Omnipotence; bent in His hand,
Whose grasp at Creation the Universe spann'd
'Twas the presence of God, in a symbol sublime,
His Vow from the flood to the exit of Time!

Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he pleads,
When storms are his chariot, and lightnings his steeds;
The black clouds his banner of vengeance unfurl'd,
And thunder his voice to a guilt stricken world;-

In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire,
And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire,

And the sword, and the plague-spot with death strew the plain,
And vultures, and wolves, are the graves of the slain :-

Not such was that Rainbow, that beautiful one!
Whose arch was refraction, its key stone-the Sun;
A pavilion it seem'd which the deity graced,
And Justice and Mercy met there, and embraced.
Awhile and it sweetly bent over the gloom,
Like Love o'er a death-couch, or hope o'er the tomb;
Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired.
As love had just vanish'd, or Hope had expired.

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I gaz'd not alone but that source of my song;-
To all who beheld it these verses belong,
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord!
Each full heart expanded-grew warm-and adored!
Like a visit the converse of friends-or a day,
That Bow, from my sight, passed for ever away;
Like that visit, that converse, that day-to my heart,
That bow from remembrance can never depart.
'Tis a picture in memory distinctly defined,
With the strong and unperishing colors of mind;
A part of my being beyond my control,

Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.

MORNING.

BY LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

[The author of the following elegant and touching lines, died a few years since in Plattsburg, New-York, at the age of seventeen. "She was a rare creature-one whose thoughts went upward as naturally as the incense of the flowers which she nourished-and who united with the very highest capacities of intellect, the affections and the meek love of a child. And she was a child, in years at least,—and yet young as she was—uneducated, and unprepared as she was-she has left a name behind, which few of her prouder cotemporaries will ever attain. She passed away from among us like a bright but unenduring vision. But-here is her poetry-it is a perfect mirror of her soul."]

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,

I kiss the flowers and I bend the trees

And I shake the dew which hath fallen by night,
From its throne on the lily's pure bosom of white,
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky;
I beam o'er the mountains and come from on high,
When my gay purple banners are waving afar-
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star-
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,
Then awake thee, O! maiden, I bid thee awake.

Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of heaven
Glitter bright with the beautiful fires at even;

When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
Drifting onward-the beautiful vessels of heaven,
To their far away harbour all silently driven,
Bearing on in their bosom the children of light,

Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
The bright ripple curls 'neath the smile of the star;
When all is in silence and solitude here,

Then sleep, maiden, sleep, without sorrow or fear!
But when I steal silently over the lake,

Awake thee, then, maiden, awake! Oh awake!

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