RETIREMENT.

THE bold adventurer, mid-way on his course
To some far island that his fancy dreams,
Where mis-shaped animals and forms grotesque
Prowl over regions of embowel'd gold,
Becomes full soon impatient of the calm
That holds him anchor'd in the glassy bay:

And longs-aye, longs to hear the dashing wave
In reckless fury bursting o'er his bows.
And so the warrior, too, the battle shout
Of victory still ringing in his ears,
Unscaith'd in limb, in spirit unsubdued,
Distastes the plays and pleasures of the court,
And lists in proud impatience for the call
To higher glories and to fresher bays.
But is there not a time? Can fancy's dream
Of things that may be, though as yet unfound,
And treasures hidden though we know not where,
But worth the seeking were it but to know-
Can they go on for ever? And when worn
And wasted with defeat, and wounded deep;
And if perchance the tardy victory come,
With scarce a limb to hang the ribbons on-
O is there not a time, when satisfied,
Alike of what it has and has not found,
In doubt if there are treasures yet to find,
Or earing not to have them, if there are→
The spirit asks no better boon of Heaven
Than to repose between the earth and skies,
To tread a soil that footsteps have not worn,
To breathe an air untainted and unfoul'd
By contact with the impurities of earth-
And as the eye sees nothing intervene
Between this fair creation of his love
And that far heaven, where we think He dwells,
So in the purified and chasten'd soul

To feel no baser interest interfere

Between our spirit and the God of love?

O yes, believe it—there does come an hour When spirits brave, and bold, and blithely fitted, Ardent to know, and panting to perform, Have had enough-and, sicken'd, or asham'd,

Tire never of the shelter that receives them,
From life's impetuous and unhallow'd cares,
To days of meditation, peace, and prayer.
And vainly then may wealth and fame invite
And fancy tell of mighty deeds to do-
The treasures are laid up-the store is full-
The pure and molten gold has pass'd the fire,
And proved itself eternal-now we ask

But time to count our treasures, and possess them,
And live upon that rich celestial store

Earth can add nothing too, nor all the waste

Of time or of eternity exhaust:

And hear-not earth's cold counsels or its fame But, safer far, to list the harmony

Of nature's musick; and by the lark,

That sings ere day-light opens, be reminded
Of that unseen and near approaching day:
And do-have we not done enough?-of sin,
Of folly, and of our own false will→
Heaping the evil measure of our doings
Till scarce eternal misery may requite them?
Now rather give us time to tell them over
And take the value of them; and be taught
Or e'er that day arrive, the sum we owe,
How much must pay, or how much be forgiven.
Cease the world's music-cease the battle strife-
Cease all alike, and stop the cumbrous wheels
Of earth's machinery-silent and serene
That we may rest awhile without their noise
Or ever we depart beyond their reach;
And earth's poor interests willingly foregone,
Make God our all before He claims to be so.

Psalm cxlvii. 11.

O LET me call thee Father-for to me

Above all other names, that name is sweet;
And if I am thy child, admit the plea,
When I approach before thy mercy seat.

O look upon me in thy best beloved,

I come to thee in Jesus' precious name;
And in my Lord, accepted and approved,
Let me thy guidance, thy protection claim;

229

A

WARNING ON THE UNCERTAINTY

OF LIFE.

(For the Assistant of Education.)

ABOUT a month since, I paid a visit to a young friend who had been one of my school-fellows, and with whom I parted last Midsummer. She was eighteen years of age-an orphan-an heiress-the representative of rank, wealth, and beauty. No one ever entered upon life with more sanguine or fairer prospects of happiness. Her many friends were affectionate and sincere, her wants were supplied as soon as named, and even forestalled, her slightest wish was gratified, pleasures suited to her age were provided for her, and she was permitted and encouraged to dispense charity with a liberal hand to all who needed it. She was not spoilt by prosperity or indulgence-her active kindness, her gaiety, her winning manners, won the affection of all around her; and to promote the happiness of others was her constant aim. Ever the gayest of the gay, she was the soul of mirth and joy: no dream of sorrow ever caused her to shed a tear, no forebodings of misfortune ever checked her buoyant spirit. If she sometimes wept that she stood alone in the world without one with whom she may claim kindred, that father, mother, brothers, all were gone, her tears were for those she had never known, and her sorrow was of that holy and chastened nature that exalts the thoughts and soothes the heart. To her this world was no passing wilderness-it was a valley of delight-she gathered every flower, inhaled each breath of gladness, found sources of pleasure at every step, and when she lingered, it was not to meditate on the past or the future, but to dwell on the present as the fairest, the loveliest scene. Her's was not that pale and melancholy

loveliness that seems to warn us it is only a sojourner on earth, but that luxuriant glow of health and spirit which breathes of life and joy. I saw her as playful, as gladsome as when we parted. We talked over old times and old companions, our childish joys and childish sorrows. She showed me her books, her drawings, the course of reading she had drawn up, the plans she had formed for the employment of her time, for her studies, &c. "And see, dear, I have done what we so often used to talk of doing;" and she placed before me a large musick-book, into which she had copied all the airs to which words have been written in the Assistant. "You must hear my piano, for it is such a beautifully toned instrument-Mr. L-gave it to me on my birthday; so I will sing and play my favourite;" and she sang "Tell me not of friends untrue." "And now I will show you my green-house, but wait one minute;" and she ran to fetch me a cloak. "Had you not better put something on yourself, Isabel," said I, as she tied it round me. "O no: I love the wind of heaven to blow on me; you need not fear-it will not harm me; for I never take cold, or ever had I a day's illness." "We will do as we used to do, Isabel," and encircling each other's waist with our arms, we folded the cloak round us, and walked up and down the garden as we were wont to do when at school. She told me of all she meant to do this winter, of the merry Christmas she was to spend with her guar dian at her own mansion, and the happiness she hopes to diffuse among her tenantry. "Mr. L. is so very kind," said she―" I never propose any thing (reasonable) which he does not accede to. Mrs. L. has written for little Mary (a poor neglected school-fellow) to spend the next holydays with us; and I hope your Mama will be able to spare you, Elizabeth-I should be so happy. I often wish " but why repeat wishes never gra

tified, intentions never fulfilled.

She, whose merry smile, whose merry glance cheered and gladdened every heart, is mouldering in the dust.