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, On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. For the Queen of the Spring, as she pass'd down the vale, - And the eye, and the heart, hail'd its beautiful form? 'Twas the bow of Omnipotence; bent in His hand, Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he pleads, In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire, And the sword, and the plague-spot with death strew the plain, Not such was that Rainbow, that beautiful one! I gaz'd not alone but that source of my song;- 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, Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of heaven When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; Then sleep, maiden, sleep, without sorrow or fear! Awake thee, then, maiden, awake! Oh awake! |