"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be, To come again to you; And here-close by-this squire I met, Who asked (so mild) what made me fret; And when I told him true, 66 "I will go with you, child,' he said, The bridle on his neck flung free, A statelier man, a statelier steed, Than those stood there that day. So, while the little maiden spoke, Looked on with glistening eye But when the dying woman's face My sister! let us pray." And well, without even book or stole, (God's words were printed on his soul) Into the dying ear, He breathed, as 'twere, an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain, And death's dark shadows clear. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, He spoke of trouble, pain and toil, In patience-faith—and love— Then as the spirit ebbed away— Such was the sight, when a gay throng Of noble huntsmen rushed along And reined their coursers back, Just as they saw their chief, astray, Each noble checked his foaming steed, And there, uncovered all, they stood- For the noblest of the land Was that deep hushed, bare headed band: By that dead pauper on the ground, LESSON CLXV. HUMAN IMPROVEMENT.-EDITOR. If any Christian, in spite of the promise that the Gospel must be preached to every creature, and the hope that its principles are one day to influence every heart, is still disposed to doubt whether the world is growing any better, he had better study the history of Toleration, of War, and of Temperance, and see if this will not afford him encouragement and consolation. The lesson must be spoken with earnestness and animation. Are we to be told that the world is growing worse; that that fair work which in its infancy the beneficent Creator pronounced good, has no tendency but to evil, no progress but to decay, no end but physical and moral death? Are we to believe that, while inanimate nature breaks upon the eye of each successive generation of men without diminished interest or beauty, and with all the improvement of art, and even with the added charms of age, man, the chief work of the divine hand, the only work wrought after the divine image, is to fall from his original rank, and so to continue to sink forever ? We grant that he has wandered; we grant that he has sinned; we grant, if you demand it, that he has fallen; but where do we find recorded, the edict which prohibits the wanderer's return, which forbids the chief of sinners to repent, or the lowest fallen to rise? Grant that all men had mistaken the way to God and goodness; grant that they had erred and strayed from the truth; grant that they had incurred the tremendous penalty of death, grant it all, and we may triumphantly point to Him who is the Way to those that are lost, who is the Truth of God to all that are in error, and who is the Resurrection and the Life to all that believe. Yes, sink man as low as that gulf into which the rebellious angels were plunged, and divine mercy will still regard him, divine love will still yearn over him, and the almighty arm will be outstretched to snatch him back. But is it true that we behold no work of man but what is evil, no movement but that which is only downward, downward continually? If it be so, I know not how to interpret what I see. It is not many years since man could bind his brother to the stake, and by a death of agony punish him for his opinions. Is it nothing that no civil or ecclesiastical power in Christendom now dares to commit this outrage upon human right, this usurpation of the judgment seat of the Eternal? It is not long since the desire of extended empire was a sufficient excuse for inflicting the curse of war upon unoffending and defenceless nations. Is it nothing that public opinion has restrained those purpled butchers, whose shambles were incessantly reeking with human blood? Is it no gain that human life has at last been counted too precious to be poured out to mark the boundary line of states, too sacred to be made the plaything of ambitious or profligate potentates, too solemn a tie to be loosed by any hand but God's ? Finally, is it nothing that, instead of the desolation which excessive indulgence had spread over the moral world, instead of the blight which had chilled the heart, shrunk up the affections, and crushed the hopes of millions of the unhappy victims of intemperance, we behold a great army of the redeemed, which no man can number, pressing forward, conquering, and we trust, to conquer; is it nothing that their banner is reaand their war-cry peace; is it nothing that, unlike son, the armies whose tramp has desolated the earth, beneath their feet the virtues are beginning to put forth vigorous blossoms, the neglected affections have begun to distil their precious balsams, and earthly comforts, and eternal hopes give promise of a plentiful harvest? If these are indications that the world is continually growing worse, God grant that it may continue to do So. If these are proofs that our course is downward and backward, God forbid that we should ever advance one step. Individual crimes, individual wrongs, no doubt exist every where, but the public is composed of individuals, and if the progress of the whole is onward, we must never despair of the parts, but with grateful hearts and unwavering resolution, "thank God and take courage." LESSON CLXVI. THE OLD ARM CHAIR. The following beautiful poem, which has also been embalmed by song, was written by MISS ELIZA COOKE, of England. I love it, I love it, and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart→ Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would In childhood's hour I lingered near |