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No more behold the emblematic wine
And bread significant of Jesus' death,
To count his sufferings an unmeaning thing.
No more those ears shall list the solemn sound
Repent," as from the sacred lips of those
Who minister in holy things around
The sacrificial altar, 'tis proclaimed.
No more that haughty spirit shall disdain
To note the warnings of a parent's heart.

No more that bosom rest in sinful trust

On Him, whose mercy spread his cottage-board

From day to day,—whose goodness should have led
Him swiftly to repent. No more those hands

Shall grasp the horns of Baal's altar, nor
Shall heave the censer unto Mammon more.

Those feet no more their wayward course shall choose.
Alas! that pulseless bosom tells he's dead!

The pinioned spirit flies to meet its Judge.

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Thus mused the stricken father, as he viewed
The pallid form of his loved son; when o'er
His better nature stole a withering blast,
And mingled up his resignation-eup,
And he gave loose to melancholic sighs.

'O, eyes! ye cannot weep, nor fast, nor long
Enough to flow the river of my grief!

Nor can this heart its aching fountains burst,
Nor throb half full or fast enough to tell
The measure of my woes. O, spirit! break,
And burst the bands of this mortality,
And dash thyself a willing sacrifice
Upon the altar of paternal love;

If but perchance one heedless son of earth
May note the fervor of a father's heart,
And see its incense rise, as he pours out
In bitterness his soul upon the fire

Of disappointed hope.'

Alas! how e'en the mighty fall, when weak
Humanity lets in the current of

A deep affection partly sanctified
Without restraint. Parents! events

Like this, o'er which your fancy lingers, are
The warning messages from Heaven to you,
Submissively to bow beneath the rod,

E'er so severe be its heart-rending strokes,
When wielded by your gracious Father's hand;
And lessons too, frail nature to distrust,
Though under vows most sacred to its God;
For, he that thinks he stands, too often falls.

A VISIT TO A DYING FRIEND.

TREAD lightly o'er the threshold, and leave there
The vanities of earth and every pulse

Of worldliness, as unfit garments; for

* Benjamin Haggens Pray, son of Isaac C. Pray, Esq., who died in Boston, December 10, 1835-three days after the preparation of this piece for the 'Boston Pearl.'

The place thou enterest is filled with heaven,
And angels hover there, to bear away in peace
The waiting spirit of the friend thou lovest.

Thus, as it were, a voice from the serene And azure firmament, was I addressed In my sad musings, while I pressed the step Of one whose heart-strings interwove with mine In by-gone days, and whom I loved as my Own soul, but whom the Author of all life Had laid upon a bed of death. I took Due heed, and lightly trode the floor, lest I Might dissipate the swelling notes of joy That rose from the bright tenant of the couch, Whose heart impelled the feeble lips to exclaim, 'How sweet a thing to die !'

He lay, the son of earth,

New-clad for Heaven, in robes of Jesus's love,

A youth of nineteen harvests, born, alas !

Alas! too soon to die- or rather one
Whose spirit lit with a celestial fire,
Sought its great Emanant in spheres
Worthy its burning influences. True,
The lucid eye had dimmed itself for death;
The intelligent brow was wrinkled by disease;
The sunny locks, that played in the light winds,
Were matted with the moisture of the grave,
And showed no lustre, though a stream of light
Anon concentred on his forehead, when
The drapery of his couch was drawn.
Was nearly spent, but every whisper seemed
Like the vibration of a harp whose strings

His voice

Were swept by airs of Heaven. Every word
Was rich with holy love to God and man.
The pallid countenance, the hollow cough,
The emaciate visage — all, all told too plain,
That he was marked Consumption's victim sure.

The manly form was prostrate; but the soul
Was lift on high, and waited for the call
Of God, to rise with the bright company
Of ministering spirits that bent low
Upon his pillow, soon to join the throng
Of ceaseless worshippers around the throne
In Heaven.

It was a privilege indeed

To be there, and to take the hand of one
Whose home was in the skies, and who would soon
Possess the mansion there prepared for him

Once

By Christ. 'Twas sweet, indeed, to hold converse
With one who e'en already breathed the air
That wafted from the streets celestial, and
Who soon would tread the golden pavements.
I was his teacher; but I felt that now
I was the pupil; and the lesson that
I learned there buoys my spirits up when I
Reflect on death. My heart was better ere
I left the interesting spot, and my
Dull spirit quickened by the joy that lit
His bosom, blent itself away from earth
With his in prayer and praise.

I fain would leave

This tenement of clay as he will leave
The tabernacle of his pilgrimage;
For sure, if aught on earth is enviable,
It is the dying bed of sainted youth,
With all the glorious hopes that cluster round
The downy pillow softened by the hand
Of Christ, and cheered by radiations bright,
That beam from the great Sun of Righteousness,
Fond youths! look down the vista of your days,
And haste your preparation for a scene
So lovely in itself-so full of sweet,
Consolatory balm to weeping friends-
So rife with honor to your Maker, God!

A BRIEF

CHAPTER ON JEWELRY.

'Ha! ha! see this old fellow!' cried a little

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urchin to his playmate the other day, as he happened to overtake a respectable octogenarian, whose three-cornered scraper, four feet staff, and other antiquated habiliments indicated but little regard to the ever-changing fashions of modern times. Immediately another little fellow came along hooting and hallooing like a wild boy from the woods. They had scarcely succeeded in attracting the attention of the insulted and venerable man, when up stepped a gentleman with an air of authority, and taking each of the vociferous youths suddenly by the arm, addressed them in substance as follows. 'My sons! I am ashamed that you should so treat that good old man. Never again deride any one for the peculiarities of their apparel. Every one has a taste or fancy in regard to their clothes, and it is as absurd for one to ridicule his neighbor for petty differences in the texture or cut of his coat, or the number and size of the buttons upon it, as it would be to desire that every one should eat the same kind of food, or that they should eat nothing at all; for there have been instances of men living without eating for a considerable time. No, no,never again let me know you to insult those whom

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