XXVI.-GOD'S SUPPORT AND GUIDANCE.

FORSAKE me not, my God,

Thou God of my salvation!
Give me thy light, to be
My sure illumination.
My soul to folly turns,

Seeking, she knows not what;

Oh lead her to thyself;

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!

Take not thy Spirit from me;

And suffer not the might

Of sin to overcome me.

A father pitieth

The children he begot;
My Father, pity me;

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!

Thou God of life and power,
Enliven, strengthen me,
In every evil hour.
And when the sinful fire

Within my heart is hot,
Be not thou far from me;

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!
Uphold me in my going,
That evermore I may

Please thee in all well-doing;
And that thy will, O Lord,

May never be forgot,
In all my works and ways,

My God, forsake me not!

Forsake me not, my God!
I would be thine forever;
Confirm me mightily

In every right endeavor.
And when my hour is come,

Cleansed from all stain and spot

Of sin, receive my soul;

My God, forsake me not!

XXVII.—A TOUCHING RELIC OF POMPEII.

SINCE the excavations of Pompeii commenced, many strange things have been brought to light. In digging out the ruins, every turn of the spade brings up some relic of ancient life, some witness of imperial luxury.

For the greater part, the relics have a merely curious interest; they belong to archæology, and find appropriate resting-place in historical museums. But there are some exceptions. Here, for instance, the excavator drops in, an uninvited guest, upon a banquet; there, he unexpectedly intrudes himself into a tomb. In one place he finds a miser cowering on his heap, another shows him bones of dancing girls and broken instruments of music lying on the marble floor. In the midst of the painted chambers, baths, halls, columns, fountains, among the splendid evidence of material wealth, he sometimes stumbles on a simple incident, a touching human story, such as strikes the imagination and suggests mournful interest of the great disaster, as the sudden sight of a wounded soldier conjures up the horrors of a battle.

Such, to our mind, is the latest discovery of the excavator in this melancholy field. It is a group of skeletons in the act of flight, accompanied by a dog. There are three human beings, one of them a young girl, with gold rings and jewels still on her fingers. The fugitives had a bag of

gold and silver with them, snatched up, no doubt, in haste and darkness. But the fiery flood was on their track, and vain their wealth, their flight, the age of one, the youth of the other. The burning lava rolled above them and beyond, and the faithful dog turned back to share the fate of his mistress, dying at her feet.

Seen by the light of such an incident, how vividly that night of horror looms upon the sense. Does not the imagination picture the little group in their own house, by the side of their fountain, languidly chatting over the day's events and of the unusual heat? Does it not hear with them the troubled swell of the waters in the bay-see as they do how the night comes down in sudden strangeness; how the sky opens overhead, and flames break out, while scoræ, sand, and molten rocks come pouring down? What movements, what emotions, what surprise! The scene grows darker every instant; the hollow monotony of the bay is lifted into yells and shrieks; the air grows thick and hot with flames, and at the mountain's foot is heard the roll of the liquid lava.

Jewels, household goods, gold and silver coins, are snatched up on the instant. No time to say farewell; darkness in front and fire behind, they rush into the streets, choked with falling houses and flying citizens. How find the way through passages which have no longer outlets? Confusion, darkness, uproar every-where; the shouts of parted friends, the agony of men struck down by falling columns. Fear, madness, and despair unchanged; here penury clutching gold it can not keep; there gluttony feeding on its final meal, and frenzy striking in the dark to forestall death. Through all, fancy hears the young girl's screams, the fire is on her jeweled hand. No time for thought, no pause, the flood rolls on, and wisdom, beauty, age and youth, with all the stories of their love, their hopes, their rank, wealth, and greatness,-all the once affluent life are gone forever.

XXVIII.-ADDRESS TO THE INDOLENT.

Is not the field, with lively culture green,
A sight more joyous than the dead morass?
Do not the skies, with active ether clean,

And fanned by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass
The foul November fogs, and slumb'rous mass,
With which sad nature veils her drooping face?
Does not the mountain stream, as clear as glass,

Gay dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace?—
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race.

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given!
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise of health. In proof of this,
Behold the wretch who slugs his life away,

Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss,

While he whom toil has braced, or manly play,
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day.

Oh, who can speak the vigorous joy of health,-
Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind?
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth
The temperate evening falls serene and kind.
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find:

See! how the younglings frisk along the meads,
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind;

Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds;
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasance breeds!
There are, I see, who listen to my lay,

Who, wretched, sigh for virtue, yet despair.
"All may be done," methinks I hear them say,
"Even death despised by generous actions fair,—
All, but for those who to these bowers repair!
Their every power dissolved in luxury,
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair,

And from the powerful arms of sloth get free'Tis rising from the dead:-Alas!-it can not be!"

Would you, then, learn to dissipate the band

Of these huge, threatening difficulties dire,
That in the weak man's way like lions stand,
His soul appall, and damp his rising fire?
Resolve,-resolve!' and to be men aspire.
Exert that noblest privilege,—alone

Here to mankind indulged:-control desire!

Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne, Speak the commanding word, I will!—and it is done.

-Thomson.

XXIX. THE DEMAGOGUE.

THE lowest of politicians is that man who seeks to gratify an invariable selfishness by pretending to seek the public good. For a profitable popularity he accommodates himself to all opinions, to all dispositions, to every side, and to every prejudice. He is a mirror, with no face of its own, but a smooth surface from which each man of ten thousand may see himself reflected.

He glides from man to man, coinciding with their views, simulating their tastes, and pretending their feelings: with this one he loves a man; with that one he hates the same man; he favors a law, and he dislikes it; he approves and opposes; he is on both sides at once, and seemingly wishes that he could be on one side more. He attends meetings to suppress intemperance,—but at elections makes every grogshop free to all drinkers. He can with equal relish plead most eloquently for temperance, or toss off a dozen glasses of whisky in a dirty doggery.

He thinks that there is a time for every thing, and therefore at one time he jeers and leers, and swears with a carousing blackguard crew; and at another time, professing to have been happily converted, he displays all the various features of devotion. Indeed, he is a capacious Christian— an epitome of faith.