was found to be yet living, though in a most precarious condition; as indeed was his friend, whose feeble frame had hardly suffered less from the cold and exposure. For many weeks both lay at the inn, almost hovering between life and death; and there was no one so watchful over them, or so good a nurse, as Joe, who, better accustomed to rough weather, was soon restored to his usual vigour. But God was pleased to restore both the young men, and to bless to them that fearful night; for years after they both owned that their first serious impression of life's uncertainty, and the awfulness of appearing unprepared before God, had been indelibly stamped upon them by that means. They have frequently been since to visit Joe, who is now a very old and infirm man, not far from the grave, and who speaks of both as if they were almost his own children. He still lives in his tiny old house, with his little Lucy, who is still "Little Lucy" in name and in fact; nor do I know what the villagers, or any of us will do when Joe is gone; for none assuredly can take his place among us. THE LOST DAY. MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. LOST! lost! lost! A gem of countless price, Lost-where the thoughtless throng Such as the white-robed choir attune O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe As if to shade from mortal eyes There, while the evening star upholds For Thou, O GOD of love, art there. The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet Hark! from yon casement, low and dim, What sounds are these that fill the breeze? It is the peasant's evening hymn Arrests the fisher on the seas; The old man leans his silver hairs Upon his light suspended oar, Until those soft, delicious airs Have died like ripples on the shore. What melts the manhood from his soul? The birds among the summer blooms Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love, From clime to clime, from pole to pole, The stars—those floating isles of light, That trembles round the form it veils,— Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee. The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt, May strive to cast Thee from its thought; But who can shut Thy presence out, Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought! In spite of all our cold resolves, Magnetic-like, where'er we be, Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves, Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread, The pure in heart shall enter in; There, souls once soft and sad as ours THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. PROFESSOR WILSON. FOR six years' Sabbaths, I had seen the Elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit;—and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance, during sermon, psalm, and prayer, I met the pastor, going to pray by his death-bed:—and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death. And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and beauty; and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man, who, we understood, was now lying on his death-bed. "They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is," said the minister, looking tenderly on the boy; "but love makes the young heart bold;-and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." As we slowly approached the cottage through a deep snowdrift, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared; and then their mother showed herself in their stead; |