appears to have been a pure-hearted, noble-spirited child, who would rather have been thought a fool, than be suspected of any deception. As soon as she could dry her tears, she wrote a remonstrance to her aunt in verse; and her aunt no longer doubted that she could write poetry.

Before she was twelve years old, she had read almost all the best English books; yet she never neglected any thing she ought to do. She loved books, and she had habits of industry; industrious people can always find time to do what they like to do.

One little anecdote is told, which shows that she was truly a good child. Her mother was so ill, as to be confined to her bed for many months; and Lucretia, then only twelve years old, not only watched her sick bed devotedly, but actually took her mother's place, in superintending all domestic affairs. At this time, a gentleman, who had seen her verses, and heard how much she loved to read, sent her twenty dollars, to buy books. At first, she was overjoyed at the thought; for she longed to increase her little library, but looking towards her mother's sick bed, the tears came into her eyes, and she said, "Take this money, dear father; it will buy many comforts for mother, I can do very well without books."

Some people who did not know how much a strong mind and a good heart could do, advised her parents not to allow her to read and write; because, they said, it would spoil her for every thing else.

Lucretia happened to hear of this; and so fearful was she of not doing right, that she gave up her books, and her pen entirely, and devoted herself all the time to household work. She did not say any thing about her resolution; but her mother noticed how melancholy she looked, and that she sometimes shed tears, and tried to conceal them. She said to her one day, "Lucretia, it is a long time since you have written any thing." The poor girl burst into tears. "Oh, mother, I have given that up long ago!"

"But why?" asked her mother.

She dried her tears, and answered, "I am convinced, from what my friends have said, that it is wrong for me to do as I have done. We are not rich, and now my eldest sister is gone, it is my duty to do all I can to assist my parents."

Her mother, on hearing this, gave her some very good advice: she told her not to give up her writing; nor yet attend to it too much; to work sometimes, and write sometimes. This would have been a healthful course, both for her body and her mind; and perhaps it is a pity that she ever had a chance to study as much as she wanted to. Unlike other children, she could not be persuaded to leave her books; and she made her mind work so much harder than her body, that she ruined her health and lost her life.

A gentleman, who thought very highly of her abilities placed her at Mrs. Willard's famous school in Troy. Her incessant study, made her so ill that she was obliged to leave school for a time. When she recovered, she was placed at the school of Miss Gilbert, in Albany; and there a more alarming illness soon brought her to the borders of the grave. She died August 27, 1825, before she was quite 17 years of age. She died in a peaceful, resigned state of mind, resting her hopes on the Lord Jesus Christ. The last word

she uttered was the name of the gentleman who had placed her at school. She is said to have been as beautiful as she was good; but her face had an expression of sadness.

NOTICES OF RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

REVIEW.

Scripture History, with additions for the books of the Maccabees and Josephus, on a plan by which the recollection of events is facilitated, and that of dates rendered easy. By T. Hallworth. Boston; Strong & Crittenden, 18mo. pp. 220.

We have a copy of the third edition of this work, enlarged and improved, now before us. From a careful examination we are prepared to say that this is no ordinary work, a person unacquainted with history, particularly Scripture history, must necessarily have very defective views of human nature, of religion and of the object of religious adoration. An outline of the plan of the work is given in the preface. It begins with the creation and proceeds in regular order through the Old Testament, and is then continued till the dissolution of the Jewish nation. This history is divided into fourteen periods, and these being subdivided into lessons renders the work highly systematic. The great amount of historical information, and the engaging manner in which it is communicated, renders this work peculiarly attractive.

Memory's Tribute, or, Things profitable for reflection.

First Series: The Baptism. By the author of the M'Ellen Family. Gen. Prot. Epis. S. S. Union. 1830. 12mo.pp.36.

THIS little work, just published by the General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union, is as instructive as it is interesting. It has food for the head, and it has food also for the heart. It places us amid the attractive scenery, and sublime associations, of our northern inland seas. A clergyman is approaching a small village. And at the bland closing hour of a summer's day, he indulges in reflections on that eternal rest, of which this sweet repose of eventide is emblematic. He passes onward, and ascends to the summit of a neighbouring hill; when suddenly his eye rests, in full view, on a transporting prospect. He sees the elevating grandeur and inspiring sublimity of LAKE ONTARIO. He lingers for a moment, to indulge appropriate sentiments. But his official duties call him to another scene. The villagers, assembled in their house of prayer, are anxiously waiting his appearance. He is welcomed; and without delay, he reads the impressive evening service of the Church. On leaving church, the clergyman, invited by Mr. Heyden, one of the congregation, repaired with him to his house. But he was soon summoned to a neighbouring 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 deathof the glorious and exalted appearance ofthe 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'ed 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.

1 gaz'd not alone on 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 colours 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 Plattsburgh, 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 the 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!