To see them point to the heavenly light,
That illumines the Christian's darkest night;
The rills of light from the throne of God,
Refreshing the Christian's desert road :
The rock that shadows his weary way,
Guarding his head from each scorching ray.
It was passing sweet, and still I see
This holy and blest fraternity;

I see them still a united band,

Tho' varied and distant their father-land;
Still one in spirit, and knit in love,
Urging their way to a home above;

Each ever guided by Heaven's bright beams,
Drinking alike of its living streams:

Aided by Christ on their toilsome road,
The Rock of their strength, their Saviour God.
Ah, who that regards that host with me,
But would wish to join their company;
Tho' mocked by some, and esteemed as mean,
Their faces with holy rapture gleam;

While led and guided by love Divine,
They view but as dross the things of time;
Harassed by sin they are oft distrest,
But their eyes are fixt on a home of rest-
That home of glory and endless day,
Where every tear shall be wiped away;
And saints and seraphs shall join to raise,
One ceaseless anthem of love and praise.

E. C.

THE DEVOTED DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF FACTS OF MODERN OCCURRENCE.

THE following little narrative is offered to the public, in the hope, that with the Divine blessing, it may prove useful, especially to those young persons of whom, alas! too many are to be found, who, being possessed of the inestimable treasure of the word of eternal life, despise or neglect the possession: forgetting that it is the means appointed by a merciful Father, ever mindful of his children's welfare, to lead them to the knowledge of a crucified Saviour, through whose atoning blood and perfect righteousness alone, they can hope for an inheritance in the mansions of eternal bliss. And the bread of life which such persons thus despise, is often, at the same time, ardently sought after by many, from whom it is withheld, through the errors of an opposite faith. Let one so circumstanced but breathe a desire to possess it, and he is at once surrounded and closely watched by the devotees of superstition and error, having their hearts untouched by the Spirit of God, who desire not this bread themselves, and think they do God service in withholding it from the famishing souls of their fellowsinners. Such has been, and such is the case, not only in the sister island, but also amongst the more enlightened people of England; superstition has exercised her tyrannous sway over many, and that too increasingly even since the commencement of those vast exertions

which have been made in the Christian world by the eminent instruments it has pleased Almighty God to raise up in his church, and at a period when the knowledge of Divine truth has spread, and the glad tidings of the Gospel been carried from the shores of Britain to the farthest corners of the earth.

A striking instance of this will appear in the following simple narrative of facts, for which the compiler is indebted to a lady of known piety and talents, whose early life was spent in the society of some of our most eminent writers, and who was herself a principal actor in the facts narrated. Should the narrative ever meet the eye of the lady alluded to, her kindness will, it is hoped, enter into the motives which incited to its publication, and allow for its many defects of style and composition; so far inferior to the manner in which she related it.

NARRATIVE.

Several years had elapsed after the death of my muchloved father, before I again visited the scenes of my early childhood. Some of those years I had spent in remote parts of England, and some abroad. On my return from a long residence in the West Indies, I accepted the invitation of one of my father's earliest friends to pass a few months in my native place, his demesne adjoining that which had belonged to our family, but which had now passed into other hands in consequence of the death of my only brother. Next to our lands lay those of the Abbey of a place endeared to me by many tender recollections, its possessors and my ancestors having for ages formed one family, united, not by kindred, but by every bond of social friendship. The inhabitants of the Abbey at the OCTOBER, 1846.

Y

time of which I speak, were strangers to me, but even as such, could not be regarded by me without a degree of lively interest, although time, distance, and a difference in religious opinions, all combined to weaken the union which formerly existed in our families.

I had not been many days at Hall, when my friend accompanied me in a visit to the Abbey, at the same time giving me a caution to avoid all mention of the cemetery this being a forbidden subject, in consequence of some deaths which had of late years occurred in the family of its owner. To me, however, this spot was the one of most peculiar interest, containing, as it did, the mortal remains of the playmates of my youth and companions of some of my more mature years; and I had anticipated a visit to it with all the ardour which early recollections were capable of inspiring. I did not attempt to conceal my disappointment, and my friend kindly promised that he would, if possible, frame some excuse to procure for me a gratification I so earnestly desired. We were politely welcomed by Mrs. A—, an intelligent-looking woman, on whose still handsome, but pensive countenance, much-indulged grief had left traces so deep, that it bore the character of a morose temper, rather than a chastened spirit, on which the hand of the Lord had been laid heavily, but in mercy. Mrs. A- had read much, and could converse well on many topics; she and my friend soon became much interested in the subject of a favourite science, when he suddenly interrupted the conversation by turning to me, and saying, 'You, my dear, expressed a wish to look over the Abbey-grounds, with which you were formerly familiar, Mrs. A— will, I am sure, allow you to do so, and Miss A- will perhaps be kind enough to accompany you,' he added, looking towards a couch on the

opposite side of the spacious apartment in which we were sitting, and I then for the first time perceived one of the most lovely, interesting-looking beings I had ever beheld, she appeared to be about sixteen years of age, tall, and so slight, that added to the pure white of her dress, it gave her the appearance of the inhabitant of another world. She turned towards my friend a countenance, in which benevolence and intelligence were blended with a shade of deep thought, and even of sadness; for an instant her countenance beamed, as she smiled on my friend, and bowing to me, she rose from her seat, and led the way towards the door. My surprise at the unexpected appearance of a person of whose presence, or even of whose existence, I had not been aware, so absorbed my mind, that we walked on in silence, a silence which was at length broken by Miss Aasking me, in the gentlest accents, if that was the path I preferred. The question, and the mild plaintive tones of the voice, in which my young companion addressed me, immediately recalled my wandering thoughts, when I perceived that I had imperceptibly, and, as it were by instinct, taken the path that led to the chapel, with its little burial-ground attached, and which I perfectly well remembered, although so many years had elapsed since I last saw it. I instantly recollected the caution of my friend, and stood hesitating how to act; inclination strongly propelled me forward, while the fear of giving pain as forcibly checked me. Miss A relieved my embarrassment by saying, 'This way leads to our little cemetery, a spot I often visit, but as you probably prefer a more cheerful path, allow me to show you that which leads to the aviary and gardens.' I hastened to assure her, that for her sake alone I had hesitated to pursue a path I had taken