is the God of the fatherless and the widow!" and she was gone, only as she went out I heard her say, "Better than diamonds-better than diamonds!" Whom could she mean? I looked at the mother. With clasped hands and streaming eyes she blessed her God, who had sent an angel to comfort her.

11. So I went too; and I went to a bright room, where were music and dancing, and sweet flowers; and I saw the young, happy faces of those who were there, and beautiful dresses sparkling with jewels; but none that I knew, until one passed me whose dress was of simple white, with only a rose-bud on her bosom, and whose voice was like the sweet sound of a silver lute. No spangled slipper was on her foot; but she moved as one that treadeth upon the air, and the divine beauty of holiness had so glorified her face, that I felt, as I gazed upon her, that she was almost an angel of God.

1 ILL-CLAD, poorly clad.

2 SCANT, too small.

3 RE-PIN'-ING, complaining; murmuring.

Anonymous.

14 GOR'-GEOUS, showy; splendid.

5 CON-TRI-TION, penitence; sorrow.

6 LUTE, an instrument of music with strings.

LESSON II.

ABRAM AND ZIMRI.

1. ABRAM and Zimri owned a field together-
A level field hid in a happy vale.

They plowed it with one plow, and in the spring
Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful seed.
In harvest, when the glad earth smiled with grain,
Each carried to his home one half the sheaves,
And stored them with much labor in his barns.
Now Abram had a wife and seven sons,

But Zimri dwelt alone within his house.

2. One night, before the sheaves were gathered in,
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed,

And counted in his mind his little gains,
He thought upon his brother Abram's lot,
And said, "I dwell alone within my house,
But Abram hath a wife and seven sons,

And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike:
He surely needeth more for life than I;
I will arise, and gird myself, and go
Down to the field, and add to his from mine."

3. So he arose, and girded up his loins,
And went out softly to the level field.

The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the cold blue sky,
The branches waved, and whispered in the wind.
So Zimri, guided by the shifting light,

Went down the mountain path, and found the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And bore them gladly to his brother's heap,
And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.

4. Now, that same night, as Abram lay in bed,
Thinking upon his blissful state in life,
He thought upon his brother Zimri's lot,
And said, "He dwells within his house alone,
He goeth forth to toil with few to help,
He goeth home at night to a cold house,
And hath few other friends but me and mine"
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone);
"While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed,
Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,
Who aid me in my toil, and make it light,
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike.
This surely is not pleasing unto God.
I will arise, and gird myself, and go

Out to the field, and borrow from my store,
And add unto my brother Zimri's pile."

5. So he arose, and girded up his loins,
And went down softly to the level field.
The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the starry sky,
The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze.
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,

Passed down the mountain path, and found the field,

Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And added them unto his brother's heap;

Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.

6. So the next morning with the early sun

The brothers rose, and went out to their toil.
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,
Though he had given a third, was still the same.

7. Now the next night went Zimri to the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share,
And placed them on his brother Abram's heap,
And then lay down behind his pile to watch.
The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,
The cedars stood up black against the sky,
The olive-branches whispered in the wind.

8. Then Abram came down softly from his home,
And, looking to the left and right, went on,
Took from his ample store a generous third,
And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile.
Then Zimri rose, and caught him in his arms,
And wept upon his neck, and kissed his cheek;
And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak;
Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.

CLARENCE COOK.

LESSON III.

SORROW FOR THE DEAD.

1. THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.1 Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.

2. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang'? Where is the child that would

willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament'? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns'? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness'?

3. No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes2 of the soul. If it has its woes', it has likewise its delights'; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection', when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive med. itation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness', who would root out such a sorrow from the heart'?

4. Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom', yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry'? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living.

5. O, the grave! the grave! It buries every error', covers every defect', extinguishes every resentment'. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious3 throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him' ?

6. But the grave of those we loved-what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scenethe bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities—the last testimonies of expiring love—the feeble, fluttering, thrilling -O how thrilling!-pressure of the hand-the last fond look of the

glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection.

7. Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition!

8. If thou art a child', and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silver brow of an affectionate parent'; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth'; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee'; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet', then be sure that every unkind look', every ungracious word', every ungentle action', will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul'; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

9. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender yet futiles tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite9 affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

1 DI-VOR'CED, separated.

2 AT-TRI-BUTE, quality; that which longs to.

3 COM-PUNC'-TIOUS, causing grief or

morse.

4 EN-DEAR'-MENTS, acts of affection.

IRVING.

5 LAV'-ISHED, bestowed freely. be-6 UN-RE QUIT'-ED, not repaid; not recom pensed.

re-7 CHAP'-LET, garland.

8 FU'-TILE, of no effect; unavailing.
19 CON'-TRĪTE, penitent; humble.