s gone:
Who conquered thousands, conquered now by one:
His strength diminished, and his glory fled;
His kingdom taken, and his honour dead.
Though clad in warlike state,--without command;
A captive buried in a foreign land:
Oh! might we hope the captive now is free,
Escaped from bondage into liberty.

"In private I have been greatly blessed; but, oh! the sense of
ignorance I feel makes me ashamed: yet I know not that I ever felt a
deeper thirst for all that God can give. Come, Lord, and diffuse Thy
presence through my soul. I have been reading Bramwell's Memoir; how
desirable his life! How enviable his death! Help me, Lord, to follow
after, and to walk in close communion with Thee; that I may apprehend
that, for which I am apprehended in Christ Jesus.--At. St Michael's
Church the Rev. John Graham improved the death of the Rev. William
Richardson, who for half a century has laboured in York, and been much
esteemed on account of his ministerial usefulness. He gave a concise
account of Mr. R.'s literary and spiritual attainments. His Christian
character was excellent. His chief joy was in Christ crucified; and
his constant prayer, that he might not live longer than he could be
useful. His labours continued up to his last illness, which lasted
only a week, and his last words were, 'My pleasures are to come.' Thus
died this eminent minister of Jesus Christ, aged 76. To me it was a
season of especial profit; angels seemed hovering around."

REFLECTIONS.

Returning seasons bid reflection wake,
And o'er the past a winding passage take:
Ah! what a scene of change arrests the mind,
Within the compass of five months behind!
In many a home is hushed the voice of mirth,
And sorrow, as a flood, o'erflows the earth.
Here one, by sad misfortune followed fast,
In hopeless indigence is plunged at last.
Another, by disaster thrown aside,
Has got a crippled limb to prop his side.
There, death has made a breach, and left forlorn
The widowed mother, and the babe unborn.
Here, weeps the father o'er his orphan child,
Who thinks it strange, for formerly he smiled:
Oh! who can tell the sorrows of his breast?
'Tis sad experience must reveal the rest.

A few days since, a mournful crowd appeared,
In sable garb, and to the church repaired;
Ask you the reason of their measured pace,
Why silent all, and tears on every face.
Alas! the Pastor's dead, who, fifty years,
The Gospel