and the ministry were present in the chamber; and the last evidence of life which they could discern was a slight motion of the countenance that was peculiar to himself when he was powerfully affected with "peace and joy in the Holy Ghost."

In the midst of solemn vows and supplications," Melancthon gently breathed his farewell to earth on the evening of the nineteenth of April 1560.— The earthly house of this tabernacle was dissolved; but no mental distractions, no foreboding terrors of conscience accompanied the departure of Melancthon, when he passed away to enter that building of God, the house not made with hands eternal in the heavens."

64

The mortal remains of Martin Luther and Philip Melancthon repose at the side of each other in the principal church of Wittemberg, awaiting "the resurrection of the just."

PHILIP MELANCTHON;

A German Professor

of

Theology and Critical Literature.
He died at Wittemberg,
In the year 1560.
Aged 63.

The following stanzas on the death of Melancthon may with equal propriety be adapted to almost every one of the Reformers. They are here introduced as an elegiac tribute to the memory of those

Christian Heroes, "who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, and obtained promises."

ODE TO THE REFORMERS.

OH! who would envy those who die
Victims on Ambition's shrine !
Though idiot man may rank them high,
And to the slain in victory

Pay honours half divine;

To feel this heaving, fluttering breath,
Still'd by the lightest touch of death,
The happier lot be mine:

I would not that the murdering brand,
Were the last weapon in my hand.

He, of whom these pages tell,
He, a soldier too—of truth,
He, a hero from his youth;
How delightfully he fell!

Not in the crash, and din, and flood,
Of execrations, groans, and blood,
Riveting fetters on the good:-
But happily, and well.

No song of triumph sounds his fall,
No march of death salutes his bier;
But tribute sweeter far than all,

The sainted sigh, the orphan tear!
Yet mourn not, ye who stand around,
Bid not time less swiftly roll;
What though shade the prospect bound,
He a brighter world has found:

Death is the birth day of the soul!

Witness! for ye saw him die,

Heard you complaint, or groan, or sigh?
Or if one sigh breathed o'er his breast,
As gentle airs, when days of summer close,
Breathe over wearied nature still repose,
And lull a lovely evening to rest;
It whispered-"All within is peace,
"The storm is o'er, and troubles cease.”

His sun went down in cloudless skies,
Assured upon the morn to rise
In lovelier array;

But not like Earth's declining light
To vanish back again to night;
The zenith where he now shall glow,
No bound, no setting beam can know;
Without or cloud or shade of woe,
As that eternal day.

History will not write his name,
Upon the crimson roll of fame-
But Religion, meeker maid,

Mark him in her tablet fair;
And when million names shall fade,
He will stand recorded there!

PETER MARTYR.

PETER MARTYR was born at Florence in the year 1500. He was received as an Augustinian monk at Fiesoli, and when twenty-six years of age