father's tears of joy fall fast and thick upon her flower-crowned tresses!

The sounds of weeping are changed to those of joy in those proud halls, for the departed daughter of Jairus hath been restored to her parents' arms, by Jesus, the blessed Redeemer of the world.

II. A SCENE AT NAIN.

The rosy glow of the broad red sun, as it sank beneath the far-shining waves of the sea, still lingered on the verdant glade, swelling up from the reedy banks of the narrow stream that wound its way slowly around the suburbs of the city of Nain. The dark olives and wavy palm-trees along the hillside rustled gently in the welcome sea-breeze, now beginning to mingle itself in the sultry atmosphere of the long and fervid day; the birds started from the dim covert of noontide, to hail with gay songs the vesper hours; myriads of butterflies filled the fragrant air, and even the "mellow horn" of the honey-bee grew louder in the fresh coolness that, coming from the distant wave, now settled down in the green aisles of the forest, and filled the crimson-spotted cells of the flower-cups.

The busy tread of comers into the city gate

was nearly over, for it was an hour in which each, after the cares and labors of the day were past, had sought the happy quiet of their own peaceful homes. At a distance was heard the sound of feet, unmixed with voices, and the gay laugh of the sentinel and his merry companions at the gate was hushed, as they gazed earnestly at a mourning throng which wound their way slowly down the wide street. They came on, bearing a corpse heavily on its bier. The broad gate swung upon its hinges, and the Roman bent his spear-point downwards as the bearers passed out, bending beneath their burden.

an

There was one, and only one, mourner, aged woman. Her steps were slow and faltering, and a broken moan fell from her lips at intervals, as she held up the pall in her withered hands, and tottered, more in grief than feebleness, after the corpse. The pitying crowd followed apart, but no one spoke to her. There was no kind friend near to comfort and support her; she had lived alone, a widow, with her only son. He was the only tie she had in the wide world, and he was now the lifeless corpse before her!

They drew near the place of sepulture. The widowed and bereaved mother clasped her straining hands upon her breast, her sobs grew

more hurried, a feverish wildness began to flash through the thin gray lashes of her eyes, as she cast them in hurried glances among the multitude. Suddenly they fell, and rested on a majestic form among the group. His lips were pale, and on his noble brow the perspiration stood in beaded drops; for many a weary league he had come since sunrise. But, with godlike self-forgetfulness, he thought only of the heartbroken mourner before him. He moved towards the bier, and, at his bidding, they set it down near his feet. Then, turning toward the bereaved mother, he said, in tones of heavenly gentleness, "Weep not!" and, taking the pall from her hands, he laid it back from the face of the dead. For a moment, he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed; then taking the cold hand before him, he said, "ARISE!" and instantly the breast heaved with life, and a sudden flush ran through the pale cheeks, and tinged the marble brow. The widowed mother gave one loud scream of joy, as the dead arose and sat upright in his shroud, then fell weeping on her restored child's neck; while Jesus, that Blessed One, went calmly on his way to Nain.

FANNY.

THE TOLLING BELL.

BY MRS. JULIA H. SCOTT.

How dost thou vibrate on my trembling heart,
Stern clarion of the grave, with thy deep knell!
Causing dim memory from the past to start,
And o'er again life's dark experience tell,

Tolling bell!

Hush thy cold voice! Too plainly do I see
The mournful throng in long procession swell;
But the dear form, alas, unseen by me,

Must pass, for thou of time dost tell,
Tolling bell!

O, the sweet bird that hushed its song so soon!
Tears ever must from feeling's fountain well,
While 'neath the saintly beaming of the moon
A weary wanderer from my home I dwell,
Tolling bell!

But it is joy to know there is a sphere

Where thy dread sounds on startled ear ne'er fell;

Toll on! I will with hopeful patience hear,

Since time for thee reserves a parting knell,

Tolling bell!

LOVE AT THE GRAVE.

DUST! dust! why wildly clings

My heart to thee? The things

Of earth should not be made our gods:
We lay them all beneath the valley-clods,
The soul, alone, hath wings.

Thine eye that oft hath gazed
Fondly on me, is glazed

And cold; no love beams longer there;
And mould is creeping o'er thy golden hair;
But thou, O thou art raised!

Why should I vainly weep,

Where the green mosses creep

Above the ruins of a beauteous shrine?

The sweet divinity I dared call mine
Does not beneath them sleep.

Why do I haunt this spot,

Where, by the world forgot,

Ashes are sleeping, whence the fire and light Long since have fled, and left but dust and blight Beneath the flowery plot?

Why on this fresh, bright sod,
Where foot hath never trod, -