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troubles comforted herself by softly repeating portions of that fine old hymn, "Jerusalem." The lines, "Blest seats, through rude and stormy scenes I onward press to you," always seemed to soothe her. But the chapter of her life was short. Then to the hearts of those who watched the dear child die, most touchingly came back the memory of those words. In the fierce spasms of pain which distorted her sweet face and dimmed her bright eyes they read that she indeed was pressing through "rude and stormy scenes to the blest seats above."

Zion's songs have not only a mission to cheer and sustain the Christian through life,-but also in death, most sweet consolers, they may go with him to the very banks of Jordan. Like Bunyan's pilgrim, many a saint has "passed through the river singing." And of one whom the writer well knew-a beloved former pastor,* who but recently fell asleep in the midst of a sorrowing flock-it has not long been written, "He also found much comfort in repeating and singing hymns, such as those beginning, 'Jesus, lover of my soul;' 'I love to steal a while away;' Jesus! I my cross have taken."" Yes! side by side with the precious Bible, the voice of prayer, and all the lovely consolations of religion, come Zion's songs, angel-like, to cheer and brighten the good man's waning hours upon the shores of time.

A mission of conviction God likewise bestows upon these spiritual songs, often keen and soul-subduing, for the blessing of the Spirit goes with it. Many a thoughtless heart, to whom the Bible was a sealed book, and words of counsel but as empty sounds, has been awakened by the gentle ministry of Zion's songs. A touching little instance has been given in illustration of this. Along one of the quieter streets of a town in England a gay young actress was passing. Suddenly the sound of music fell upon her ear. She stopped to listen. The music was but simple,-only a few poor women singing a hymn as they sat at their work; but she could not go on, and, as she lingered and listened, the hymn came home to her hitherto careless soul with strong convicting power. The actress went on her way, but the words went with her; they rang in her ears and trembled in her heart:

"Depth of mercy! can there be
Mercy still reserved for me?"

And from that hour an awakened soul sought counsel from her long-neglected Bible, and wept and prayed, and gave neither "sleep to her eyes nor slumber to her eyelids" till she had indeed found mercy in the exhaustless "depth of mercy." She left the stage, appearing upon it but once again at the urgent request of the manager; then, with a gay crowd before her, in the very midst of earth's vain pageantry, the young actress fell upon her

* Rev. R. W. Dunlap; died February, 1856.

knees, and, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, sang the -words

"Depth of mercy! can there be
Mercy still reserved for me?"

* * * *

The amusement for that evening was over. Soon the wondering audience dispersed. They went away, many to mock and laugh at the weeping singer, some to muse and tremble. Yes! to the hearts of many now safe within the fold, "versified truth" has come home as saving truth. Already what a host of those we loved, and who sang with us the songs of the church militant, have crossed the stream and entered the church triumphant, there to join in the exulting anthems of praise! And, as in the quiet eventide we sit and sing the hymns they loved, their faces come back to us, their gentle presence seems to overshadow us. This hymn-we learned it from a mother who is walking now the streets of the "New Jerusalem;" and that-a sister loved and sang it often with us, but she is far away to-night; a sweeter strain has been put within her mouth, and her fellow-choristers are angels and the spirits of the "just made perfect." And we remember, with unutterable tenderness, one who loved these songs of Zion, and sang them as he toiled in "the vineyard" or as he rested by the fireside; one who, following in the Master's steps, "went about doing good," whose heart was full of love, whose actions beautiful,a faithful minister of Christ,-a spiritual father, indeed, to many, a child of the covenant. It seems but a little while since, and he was with us, singing these very hymns; and now he has gone-gone to join in the "new song," to mingle with Christ's ransomed children in the courts of Heaven. * * * * "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight." L. M. L. COLUMBIA, Pa.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF

CHAMOUNY.

We give to our readers, by request, this celebrated hymn by COLEridge. Beside the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and, within a few paces of the glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning Star

In his course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,

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As with a wedge! But when I look again
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,-
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,-
Thou, the mean while, wast blending my thought,
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing-there,
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink;
Companion of the morning star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shatter'd and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded-and the silence came-
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbow? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the element!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-
Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, a while bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly, seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me-rise, oh ever rise,

Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell your rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

Bousehold Choughts.

THE TRAINING OF CHILDREN.

No. II.

HAVING answered the inquiry, What is implied in the word "train"? we proceed to inquire into the mode by which this training is to be carried on.

1. Affection and Familiarity are requisite for this work. Let it not strike any one with surprise that this is introduced as a distinct thought, seeing "parental love" is proverbial. The design is not to question the truth of the proverb; neither to insinuate a doubt that there is a single parent who would not in the hour of peril hazard his or her life to save the child. There is heat of a certain kind, or rather existing in a certain state, which philosophers style latent,-i e. hidden, not sensible to the touch. So, in too many instances, is it with this parental affection. Its existence you would not deny. Still, there are cases in which you cannot decide that it truly and strongly is felt until some great emergency

calls it out.

An inspired proverb speaks on this wise:-"A man that would have friends must show himself friendly." (Prov. xviii. 24.) Probably we shall find this to be of more extended application than

merely to our relations in the community around and without the domestic circle,-that it refers, with equal force, to the parental relation also; so that we might say, The man that would have the affection of his children must show himself affectionate. Hence, at the head of these remarks, with the word affection is associated that of familiarity also. It is only by tender, familiar intercourse that a child can derive its idea of strong affection and have his own heart won. At birth, in this one respect, the parent is to it as any other person. And it is only as that parent is found in its daily society,-showing it daily attention, reciprocating its daily smiles,-that that child learns to feel, even without the least sense of obligation, a strength of fond attachment towards that parent unknown in reference to any other. This is abundantly illustrated by cases, where, in the long absence of parents, the child, from tender years, has been thrown with others. Now the same result, to a certain degree, may practically be obtained without a formal separation of the parent and child. Let the child seldom or never find its smile reciprocated by the parent's smile, its attempts to fondle and be merry while on that parent's knee uniformly rebuffed, the questions which its growing and expanding intellect suggests seldom or never answered, and the voice of that parent, ever and anon, coming in stern rebuke upon its childish sports, and what then is left upon which can fasten the tendrils of that youthful heart? Mothers have been known to be culpable in this respect. But it is more frequently and emphatically true of fathers.

Various reasons operate, producing this same result. Some regard it as undignified and unmanly to bestow much attention upon their children. Some would be too profound philosophers. Others covet a literary fame. Others still, during their only intervals of relaxation, feel too weary from their toil. But the man who regards the subject thus ought seriously to inquire what those children are to do. If his dignity is so unyielding, his lofty literary soarings so sublime, his philosophical engagements so profound, or his daily pursuits so wearying, that neither the one nor the other allows the approach of the child, to whom shall he go? Besides, who can believe that, if thus repelled at home, the child will not eagerly and gladly avail himself of every opportunity for intercourse with those abroad, who, by smiles and words and acts of kindness, may show a disposition to befriend him. And if the child, thus made to feel a void at home, sallies forth to meet with some who can deign to notice children, and at random shall succeed, what voucher has the parent for the character of the lessons and sayings that may fill the ear, and of their controlling influence? Who doubts that the one who wins the heart will gain the ear and control the character?

The bearing of all this is that, by failing through affection and familiarity to win the love and confidence of the child, a great

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