THE UNBELIEVER.

I PITY the unbeliever-one who can gaze upon the grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition. The unbeliever! one whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnifi cently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him, mind, the god-like gift of intellect-is debased, destroyed; all is dark-a fearful chaotic labyrinth-rayless-cheerless-hopeless! No gleam of light from heaven penetrates the blackness of the horrible delusion; no voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps of Seraphim arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless; reason is prostrate; and passion, prejudice, and superstition have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect.

I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation from on high but a sealed book? He sees nothing above, or around, or beneath him that evinces the existence of a God; and he denies-yea, while standing on the footstool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and denies there is a God. Dr. Chalmers.

THE ASTONISHED TIPPLER.

OUT of the tavern I've just stepped to-night-
Street! you are caught in a very bad plight;
Right hand and left hand are both out of place-
Street, you are drunk: 'tis a very clear case.

Moon! 'tis a very queer figure you cut;
One eye is staring while t'other is shut-
Tipsy, I see, and you're greatly to blame;
Old as you are, 'tis a horrible shame.

Then the street lamps-what a scandalous sight!
None of them soberly standing upright;
Rocking and staggering-why, on my word,
Each of those lamps is as drunk as a lord.

All is confusion! now isn't it odd ?
Nothing is sober that I see abroad :
Sure it were rash with this crew to remain;
Better go into the tavern again.

THE DRUMMER BOY.

A Touching Incident of the Crimean War.

"Captain Graham, the men were sayin'
Ye would want a drummer lad,
So I've brought my boy Sandie,
Tho' my heart is woful sad;
But nae bread is left to feed us,
And no siller to buy more,
For the gudeman sleeps forever,
Where the heather blossoms o'er.

"Sandie, make your manners quickly,
Play your blithest measure true-
Gives us Flowers of Edinboro','

While yon fifer plays it too.
Captain, heard ye e'er a player
Strike in truer time than he ?"
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray
Drummer of our corps shall be."

"I give ye thanks-but, Captain, maybe
Ye will hae a kindly care

For the friendless, lonely laddie,

When the battle wark is sair:
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle,
And I've nothing else to love,
Nothing-but the grave off yonder,
And the Father up above."

Then, her rough hand gently laying
On the curl-encircled head,

She blessed her boy. The tent was silent,
And not another word was said;

For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming
Of a benison, long ago,

Breathed above his head, then golden,
Bending now, and touched with snow.

"Good-bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother,
I'll come back some summer day;
Don't you fear-they don't shoot drummers
Ever. Do they, Captain Gra—?
One more kiss-watch for me, mother,
You will know 'tis surely me

Coming home-for you will hear me
Playing soft the reveille."

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly
Seemed to link in strange affright,
As the scudding clouds before them
Shadowed faces dead and white;
And the night-wind softly whispered,
When low moans its light wing bore-
Moans that ferried spirits over

Death's dark wave to yonder shore.

Wandering where a footstep careless
Might go splashing down in blood,
Or a helpless hand lie grasping

Death and daisies from the sod-
Captain Graham walked swift onward,
While a faintly-beaten drum
Quickened heart and step together:
"Sandie Murray! See, I come!

"Is it thus I find you, laddie?
Wounded, lonely, lying here,

Playing thus the reveille?

See the morning is not near. 99

A moment paused the drummer boy,

And lifted up his drooping head:

"Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said.

"Morning! See, the plains grow brighterMorning-and I'm going home;

That is why I play the measure,
Mother will not see me come;
But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain--"
Hush, the boy has spoken true;
To him the day has dawned forever,
Unbroken by the night's tattoo.

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

SOFTLY Woo away her breath,

Gentle death!

Let her leave thee with no strife,

Tender, mournful, murmuring life!

She hath seen her happy day,

She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom !

She hath done her bidding here:
Angels dear!

Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies,-sweet love!
Good she was, and fair in youth;
And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth:
Take her, then, forevermore,—
Forever-evermore!

Barry Cornwall:

A VISION OF FUTURE BLISS.

REST! how sweet the sound! It is melody to my ears. It lies as a reviving cordial at my heart, and thence sends forth lively spirits which beat through all the pulses of my soul. Rest, not as the stone that rests on the earth, nor as this flesh shall rest in the grave, nor such a rest as the carnal world desires. Oh blessed rest! when we rest not day and night, saying, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty;" when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from suffering and sorrow, but not from joy. Oh blessed day! when I shall rest with God! when I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord! when my perfect soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most perfect God!

This is that joy which was procured by sorrow; that crown which was procured by the Cross. My Lord wept, that now my tears might be wiped away; he bled, that I might now rejoice; he was forsaken, that I might

not be; he died, that I might live. Oh free mercy, that can exalt so vile a wretch! Free to me, though dear to Christ; free grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken.

Oh sweet reconciliation! happy union! Now the gos pel shall no more be dishonored through our folly. No more, my soul, shalt thou lament the sufferings of the saints, or the Church's ruins, or mourn thy suffering friends, nor weep over their dying beds or their graves. Thou shalt never suffer thy old temptations from Satan, the world, or thy own flesh. Thy pains and sickness are all cured; thy body shall no more burden thee with weakness and weariness; thy aching head and heart, thy hunger and thirst, thy sleep and labor, are all gone.

Oh what a mighty change is this! From persecuting sinners, to praising saints. From a vile body, to this which shines as the brightness of the firmament. From a sense of God's displeasure, to the perfect enjoyment of him in love. From all my fearful thoughts of death, to this joyful life. Blessed change! Farewell sin and sorrow forever; farewell my rocky, proud, unbelieving heart; my worldly, sensual, carnal heart; and welcome my most holy, heavenly nature. Farewell repentance, faith, and hope; and welcome love, and joy, and praise.

I shall now have my harvest without plowing or sowing; my joy without a preacher or a promise; even all from the face of God himself. Whatever mixture is in the streams, there is nothing but pure joy in the fountain. Here shall I be encircled with eternity, and ever live, and ever, ever praise the Lord. My face will not wrinkle, nor my hair be gray; for this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal, immortality; death shall be swallowed up in victory. Oh death! where is now thy sting? Oh grave! where is thy victory?

The date of my lease will no more expire, nor shall I trouble myself with thoughts of death, nor lose my joys through fear of losing them. When millions of ages are past, my glory is but beginning; aud when millions more are past, it is no nearer ending. Every day is all noon, every month is harvest, every year is a jubilee, every age is a full manhood, and all this is one eternity. Oh blessed eternity! the glory of my glory, the perfection of my perfection.

Richard Baxter.