do not think of pain; I am happy, and shall soon go home." There was an affecting artlessness in all she said which I cannot describe, and a promptness which beautifully illustrated the inspired truth, that out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. I found myself in the presence of one who had learned much in the school of Christ, and who seemed just spreading her wings for the mansions of rest. Consolation, instruction, sympathy, she needed none, for she had already passed within the veil. I remained silently admiring the pure influence of Christianity, while religion herself seemed to stand bending over her child in all the loveliness with which inspiration has arrayed her. This child of affliction, for such, without her permission, I must call her, had for two years indulged the Christian hope. No ambassador of Christ had been there to lead her within the enclosure of the Church; no pious visitant had entered the humble dwelling, to impart the bliss of Christian fellowship. But ministering angels had descended, and she had learned of the Father. Resigned to the lot of humanity, and supported by that faith which is the "substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen," she had bid adieu to the world, and was waiting to be called to the abodes of the blessed. The widowed mother, too, could plead the promise made to the widow and the fatherless. Having commended to the great Shepherd this little group of afflicted, secluded beings, and bade them adieu for ever, as I silently retraced my steps to the more busy scenes of life, I indulged the train of reflections suggested by the scene I had witnessed. The impression which it stamped so indelibly upon my mind I need not describe. There is still a freshness in the scene (for I am relating facts) which can be lost only with the power of recollection. The reader, when he is assured that the page he peruses contains no fiction, will make his own reflections, and he will be impressed with the truth that true happiness is found in the humbler as well as in the more elevated walks of life. The gay and beautiful, whose attention is devoted to the walks of pleasure, while they pity this afflicted sister of the wilderness, will feel the importance of seeking that religion which supported her in the hour of affliction, and which constituted the loveliness of her character. The pious fair, too, who in their sphere of benevolence resemble angels of mercy, will not in their "walks of usefulness" forget the cottage of the poor. The cottage scene will afford to the benevolent mind a happiness far superior to a visit in the halls of a palace. I love to recur, in my lonely meditations, to the lodge in the wilderness," and I would rather visit the solitary grave of this departed saint (for she now sleeps beneath the shade of the adjacent forest), and read her rudely sculptured name, than gaze upon the "storied urn and animated bust" of the proudest hero. TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND,* BY JOHN G. WHITTIER God bless ye, brothers!—in the fight Than tyrant's law or bigot's ban More mighty is your simplest word; The free heart of an honest man Go-let your bloated Church rehearse Let the State scaffold rise again- Forget ye how the blood of Vane From earth's green bosoni cried? The great hearts of your olden time Are beating with you, full and strong; All holy memories and sublime And glorious round ye throng. The bluff, bold men of Runnymead The truths ye urge are borne abroad *The present struggle in Great Britain between the People and the Aristocracy-between liberal, republican principles and class legislation-has not attracted that notice in this country which the important interests staked upon its issue would seem to claim at the hands of American democracy. The formation of the National Complete Suffrage Association-pledged to universal suffrage and annual parliaments-at the head of which slands JosEPH STURGE, the eminent "Quaker Chartist of Birmingham," has had the effect of uniting the middle and working classes throughout the United Kingdom, and inducing the liberal electors to make common cause with the disfranchised class. Among those who are directly or indirectly connected with this movement are Lord Brougham, Daniel O'Connell, Dr. Bowring, M.P., Sherman Crawford, M.P., Col. Thompson, FearJ. G. W. gus O'Connor, and T. S. Duncombe, M.P. IF the Lord Jesus Christ was not glorious in himself-strip him of the light he dwells in, silence the praises of heaven, remove far away the ten thousand adoring spirits who worship at his footstool, veil him once again in the body of humiliation, yet this one fact, that all blessedness which sinners ever knew has sprung from him, lays the believer at his feet in adoration and wonder. We esteem him rich who, after supplying his own wants, has still wherewith to relieve the wants of others; we call him great who has preserved a nation; but here are riches that have blessed unnumbered millions for ever, and a power that has saved a world. It is this which causes the Church below to glory in nothing save the Redeemer's cross; it is this which the Church above takes as the subject of its loudest praise. It was the prospect of this glory that enabled Christ himself to "endure the cross, and despise the shame;" it is the enjoyment of this which now fills and satisfies the soul. And when the Son of Man, at the last great day, shall "sit on the throne of his glory," what is it that will make him so glorious there ?-the hosts of mighty angels around him? an assembled world at his feet? the melting away before his presence of the earth he suffered on, and of the sun which beheld his reproach? No; the salvation of the lost. "He shall appear to be glorified in his saints, and to be admired in all them that believe." THE MOTHERLESS. YOU'RE weary, precious ones! your eyes Think ye of her, who knew so well 'Tis time to say your evening hymn, My sheltering arms can clasp you all, My poor deserted throng! Cling, as you used to cling to her Who sings the angel's song. Begin, sweet birds! the accustomed strain; Come, warble loud and clear; Alas! alas! you're weeping all, You're sobbing in my ear! Good night-go say the prayer she taught Beside your little bed; The lips that used to bless you there Are silent with the dead! A father's hand your course may guide, His care protect those shrinking plants Shall like the mother write? Who touch the strings that rule the soul?- NIGHT. BY H. C. HENRY. LET the Gheber kneel, in the deep idolatry of his heart, and pour out his prayers to the sun; ay, let him term it his Godhis life-his all-while kindles his eye with rapture, as it drinks in its glorious beams; but for myself, I must confess, that night, calm, silent night, with its radiant sabbaoth glowing burningly above me, has a charm, a silent, yet holy eloquence, which we find not, we feel not, in the bustle and glare of the day. I love the golden sunlight; it thrills my very soul with joy, and I have gazed upon the splendors it creates, hour after hour, forgetful of myself, almost lost in admiration. I have seen this king, this God of day, when he came forth from the portals of the east, flinging abroad his golden rays, first on the over-arching sky, then on the earth; and the hill-tops caught his glance, and smiled, and almost seemed to glow with life, as well as beauty; and soon the glad rays came down upon the valley, and the streamlets ran, and leaped, and sparkled, as if rejoicing in his gorgeous beams; and the mists began to rise from the margin of river, brook, and sheeted lake, and climb up to mantle the brow of hill and mount, or float away, in purple glory, to the unseen gates of paradise; and as I watched them steadily, intently, until the curtain of distance hid them from my view, I have felt something within me, as it were, struggling like them to flee away from the shadows and storms of earth, to a brighter and happier home. I have seen the beauties of a summer's sunset, and have felt that they were ravishing. My eye would never weary of drinking in the glories which such a scene presents. To see clouds, deep, massy, gorgeous, piled upon each other in beautiful magnificence, seeming the "pillared props of heaven," the thousand colors of the sunbeam painted upon their fleecy folds; to see them rolling away, slowly and heavily, as if the shoulder of some unseen giant were applied to the whole mass, and, as |