e--
Far reaching to eternity;
And when, like mine, your setting sun
Proclaims life's journey almost run,
O, may his last--his sinking ray,
Beam on a brighter, happier day.
Forgive, dear maid, my truthful strain--
Say not, such reas'ning is in vain;
Say not that age is ever blind,
And disappointment sours the mind;
But, oh! the voice of warning heed--
And quickly to the Saviour speed;
For Jesus tells you "there is room,"
And to the weary soul says, "Come;"
Then lean your head upon his breast.
And you shall have the promised rest.

When you shall touch your gifted lyre,
Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire,
O then, remember me again,
And wake for me one pleasing strain.

Lines, Written in an Album.

"Then Jesus said unto her, Mary."

"Mary," the ris'n Saviour said,
In accents sweet and low;
"Mary:" she rais'd her drooping head,
The form she sought to know.

Mary had lingered by the cross,
To see her Saviour die;
Had seen him wrapp'd in linen fine,
In Joseph's tomb to lie.

Now she had come at early dawn,
Laden with rich perfume,
To shed her tears beside his form--
Her fragrance round his tomb.

But, lo! he lives; O, glad surprise!
Has ris'n from the grave;
And now, before her ravish'd eyes,
Proclaims his power to save.

May you, who bear that gentle name,
This Saviour's call obey;
And he will lead you by his grace,
To realms of endless day.

Mary had followed to the cross--
Had sought him at the tomb;
So may you follow, seek and find;
He calls--"there still is room."

A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century.

The hardy and enterprising inhabitants, who first penetrated the
eastern forests, to fell their hardy oaks, and build up settlements,
in the then remote east, had many difficulties to encounter, which
later generations know nothing of. In the latter part of the
eighteenth century, two families lived in their log cabins, in the
interior of the forest. They had each a small cleared spot of land,
that amply repaid their labor, by its rich productions. The morning
sun, as he shed his rising beams over the long range of forest trees,
glanced smilingly upon their little cultivated spot,

"That bloomed like Eden, in the world's first spring;"

and they were contented and happy. The dense forest trees, waving
in the blast, or gently bowing their lofty heads before the m