terests; and, though she was as a ministering angel to those who needed her cares, her mind had no affinity with any thing of earth. The mountaineers buried her in the same tomb with Albrecht, and one simple stone marks the place of their sleep. On it are inscribed these words:

"THEY ARE NOT, FOR GOD TOOK THEM."

MARY'S CHOICE.

BY E. H. CHAPIN.

Luke x. 42.

THAT Choice, — O, what was Mary's choice? Say, was it flashing gems,

Like those that sparkle bright and high in princely dia

dems?

Or was it of white, snowy pearls; or else of shining gold, Sifted from sands where long the clear and yellow waves have rolled?

Not these, not these; for they are born of earth and of

decay;

Their boasted lustre time will mar, and they will pass

away:

In gifts so frail and perishing the soul may not rejoice: Not these, no passing things like these, were Mary's happy choice!

That choice, -O, what was Mary's choice? Say, was it beauty fair?

'Tis found amid green summer bowers, when music thrills the air;

Where bright brows are twined with ́garlands, by love's subtle fingers wreathed,

And false, fair words, in softened tones, from passion's lips are breathed.

But, as from the cunning harp-chords die their melody and

tune,

As fades upon its leafy stalk a dewy rose of June,

So beauty's music, beauty's bloom, fade with their sum

mer joys:

Not this, no passing thing like this, was Mary's happy choice!

That choice,

O, what was Mary's choice? Say, was it pleasure gay?

A little while the sunshine and the flowers are on its way; A little while the bounding heart to its witchery is strung, And its light is in the youthful eye and its rapture on the

tongue:

And then its beaming lamps are quenched, its viol gives no sound;

Its wine-cup from the trembling hand lies shattered on the ground;

And for the sorrowing, yearning soul, it has no soothing voice:

Not this, no mockery like this, was Mary's happy choice!

That choice, -O what was Mary's choice? It was a BOON of heaven,

That to the living, precious soul, in mercy hath been

given;

A gift that leads through all life's track up to immortal

day:

She chose that PART, "that BETTER PART," that nought can

take away.

Go, then, in penitence and faith, in love and duty go, And rest thy choice in that bright land where crystal waters flow:

May angel-thoughts within thy heart keep all its fountains

sweet:

O, sit, as Mary sat of old, At The Redeemer's FEET!

THOUGHTS ON THE DEITY.

THERE is nothing so sweet in all the world of thought, as the belief that some gentle spirit of love is forever hovering around us, discerning our necessities before they are felt by ourselves, and removing from our pathways dangers and afflictions we have not seen, nor even learned to fear.

Some little flower springs up along our way; some silvery brook murmurs, and keeps the mosses green; a bird, with soft, bright wing, flutters among the boughs, and trills his gentle notes from the greenwood tree; a warm breeze wanders by, laden with the perfumes of the willow and the meadow violet; a moonbeam steals in silence to the pillow where we rest; a star mirrors its gentle beauty in the sleeping lake; 66 a thousand tokens of sight and sound " assure us of the presence of some viewless guardian who is ever soothing and blessing the struggles of human pilgrimage.

There was a sweet young being who shared the sports of childhood. Ever kind and tender,

she was ever faithful and ever thoughtful of your desires. She wandered with you by the streams, and amid the early flowers; she hunted with you through the woodlands, and helped you gather the autumn nuts; she watered the rose-trees you had planted, and fed your birds and squirrels as though they were her own. Far away on a beautiful woodland bank, where the moss-flowers were ever green and fresh, and the yellow violets scented the tremulous air, she would sit with you through the golden twilight, and watch the beautiful shell-ducks that came down to bathe their salmon-colored breasts in the lake, or the fireflies that shone out like earthly stars or mimic meteors from the brakes and wild-flags that filled up the meadow.

When womanhood had deepened the dye of her sunny hair, and subdued the spirit of her thoughtful eyes, she would bend with you over the classic page, and beguile the weariness of your tasks by her sweet assistance. At evening, she would lull the cares of day to rest by some soft-toned and plaintive hymn; or if you were fevered with pain, would sit by your couch like an angel of love, till the morning star had hid itself beneath the golden wings of the sun.

At last the rose grew deeper upon her cheek,