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They tell me that beyond the seas,

In very distant lands,
The people worship idols still,

The work of human hands.

The children there were never told

About the mighty God,
Who made mankind, and all the earth,

And spread the skies abroad.


They never heard of Jesus Christ,

And all his dying love ;
They fear not hell below, nor care

For joys of heaven above.

Oh, what a wretched state is theirs !

How sad no tongue can say!
But am I wiser, let me ask,

Or better off than they?

If I delight in earthly things,

Instead of God alone,
I worship idols just as they

Who bow to wood and stone.

What is the use of all I know

Of God's most holy word,
Unless my heart is chang'd and brougbt
To know and love the Lord ?

THE INFANT PRINCE. A PRINCE has been born to fill a high station, The news of his birth gave joy to our nation; But what are his honours, his titles, and birth, When compar'd with the “ Prince of the kings of

the earth?" This “ Infant of days" " in the fulness of time," Appear'd in this world, a Saviour divine; The wonderful work which he undertook, Is clearly reveal'd in God's holy book; The news of salvation when it first reach'd this earth, Was usher'd by angels who sung at his birth; This act of God's love shall fresh wonders unfold, Till unnumber'd millions his glory behold 3 The Indian tribes and nations afar, Shalllook from theirdwellings to see this Bright Star. Eye.

W. C.
Who lost four children in five days, from 3 to 13 years of age.

Though full of mystery the cloud appear
Which overspreads your sky,-yet, beauteous there
The Rainbow of the Covenant is seen,
Plac'd by the nand of Him whose love's supreme.
All things shall work together for your good."
One Sabbath found your babes as pilgrims here;
The next, by faith, we see them lodged there,
Where comes no night of pain, but endless day
Succeeds their earthly transitory stay:
And should they see your tears, methinks they'll say,
“Dear parents, weep not so, your grief allay;
For we are where afflictions never coine, -
With Jesus, and bis angels, here at home !"
Then “sorrow not as those without a hope,"
But take submissively the bitter cup,
And ultimately you, where rest the weary,

Shall meet your Joseph, Rhoda, John, and Mary.

J, D.M


ABOUT THE SOUL. One evening, Mrs. Stanhope took her seat by the table, and told Eliza to come and sit by her. Eliza seemed glad to talk with her mother, and Mrs. Stanhope was also happy to talk with her, for she was quiet and attentive to what her mother said.

Mother. Eliza, can you tell me what matter

Eliza. Matter is anything which I can see, hear, taste, smell, or touch.

M. What is spirit ?

E. That something within me which thinks, and feels, and knows what is right and what is wrong. It has not form, colour, sound, taste,

is ?

smell, hardness, or softness.

You told me, mother, that it is the same as my soul.

M. You remember, Eliza, we were talking, some days ago, about Jane Baker.

E. I remember it, mother.

M. You know they put her body into a coffin, and carried it to the burying ground; and there they lowered it down into the grave, and covered it over with earth.

E. Yes, mother; and I went, the other day, to see little Jane's grave. I love to go there and think about her, only it makes me cry sometimes. The grass has now grown all over her grave, and there is a white stone at one end of it, with her name on it, and it tells how old she was when she died.

M. When Jane Baker died, her body was put into the grave, but her soul was not. Your hody, Eliza, will be put into the grave


you die, but your soul will not.

E. Will my soul live, mother, after my body is dead ?

M. Eliza, your soul will never die. Your body will die, and be laid in the grave, and turn to dust. But your soul will never die. It will live always.

E. I do not understand you, mother.

M. Look here, Eliza; I will make as many marks on this slate as there are days in one year. There, I have made the marks. Now, do you count them.


E. I have counted them, mother, and there are three hundred and sixty-five.

M. That is right : there are three hundred and sixty-five days in one year, and if I were to make as many marks again, they would amount to as many days as there are in two years. Now, suppose I were to fill all the slate full of marks on both sides, how many years do you suppose they all would represent ?

È. I do not know, mother. Perhaps they would represent as many as ten years.

M. Well, they would,-about that. Now, suppose I were to fill ten slates full, how many years would that amount to ?

E. One hundred, mother; because ten tens make one hundred.

M. Suppose this room were full of slatesas full as it could hold, one piled on the top of another, and every slate were full of marks, and every mark made one year, how many years would they all make ?

E. Oh! I do not know, mother-I could not count them.

M. Suppose every room in this bouse were full of slates, all covered with marks, and every house in this town full of them, and you

should carry them all into a large field, and pile them all one on the top of another, how many years would they all make ?

E. Oh! mother, nobody could tell. It would take you all your life to count them.

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