Norway, but without success, until the celebrated Olaf Triggvason married the pious Princess Gyda, when he became a convert and overthrew the altars of Odin.

I could speak of many more exalted and pious women, and martyrs, but enough has been said to prove the truth of my previous assertion, and to exemplify the words of a celebrated historian, who tells us: "Christianity has, in every age, acknowledged its important obligations to woman."

O ye my sisters of every clime! may ye know the power and influence which are yours, and may ye exert it as these exalted females have done before you!

Not alone on pagan shores, but around you, in your dearest circle, you will find a field ripe for the harvest.

All those "honorable women" whose deeds I have narrated-Bertha, Helena, Pulcheria-are shining a brilliant galaxy on high, with a countless starry host of witnesses besides. See! from the celestial city they are gazing down upon you! While, pointing to a glorious cross on high, they seem to say, in the words of Constantine-"In this sign you shall conquer."

A Memorial.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

DANIEL WHEELER, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York, in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country.

Он, dearly loved!

And worthy of our love!-No more
Thy aged form shall rise before
The hush'd and waiting worshipper,
In meek obedience utterance giving
To words of truth, so fresh and living,
That, even to the inward sense,
They bore unquestion❜d evidence
Of an anointed Messenger!

Or, bowing down thy silver hair

In reverent awfulness of prayer—

The world, its time and sense, shut out—
The brightness of Faith's holy trance
Gather'd upon thy countenance,

As if each lingering cloud of doubt-
The cold, dark shadows resting here
In Time's unluminous atmosphere-

Were lifted by an angel's hand,
And through them on thy spiritual eye
Shone down the blessedness on high,
The glory of the Better Land!

The oak has fallen!

While, meet for no good work, the vine
May yet its worthless branches twine.
Who knoweth not that with thee fell
A great man in our Israel?

Fallen, while thy loins were girded still,
Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,
And in thy hand retaining yet

The Pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell! Unharm'd and safe, where, wild and free, Across the Neva's cold morass

The breezes from the Frozen Sea

With winter's arrowy keenness pass; Or, where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tatter'd sail, Or, where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat;

The same mysterious hand which gave Deliverance upon land and wave, Temper'd for thee the blasts which blew Ladoga's frozen surface o’er,

And bless'd for thee the baleful dew
Of evening upon Eimeo's shore,
Beneath this sunny heaven of ours,

Midst our soft airs and opening flowers
Hath given thee a grave!

His will be done,

Who seeth not as man, whose way
Is not as ours!-'Tis well with thee!
Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay
Disquieted thy closing day,

But, evermore, thy soul could say,
"My Father careth still for me!"
Call'd from thy hearth and home-from her,
The last bud on thy household tree,

The last dear one to minister

In duty and in love to thee,

From all which nature holdeth dear,
Feeble with years and worn with pain
To seek our distant land again,
Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing

The things which should befall thee here,
Whether for labor or for death,

In child-like trust serenely going
To that last trial of thy faith!

Oh, far away,

Where never shines our Northern star

On that dark waste which Balboa saw From Darien's mountains stretching far, So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there With forehead to its damp wind bare

He bent his mailéd knee in awe;
In many an isle whose coral feet
The surges of that ocean beat,
In thy palm-shadows, Oahu,

And Honolulu's silver bay,
Amidst Owhyhee's hills of blue,
And taro-plains of Tooboonai,
Are gentle hearts, which long shall be
Sad as our own at thought of thee,—
Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed,
Whose souls in weariness and need

Were strengthen'd and refresh'd by thine,
For, blessed by our Father's hand,
Was thy deep love and tender care,
Thy ministry and fervent prayer—
Grateful as Eshcol's cluster'd vine
To Israel in a weary land!

And they who drew

By thousands round thee, in the hour
Of prayerful waiting, hush'd and deep,
That He who bade the islands keep

Silence before Him, might renew

Their strength with His unslumbering power, They too shall mourn that thou art gone,

That never more thy aged lip

Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn,
Of those who first, rejoicing, heard

Through thee the Gospel's glorious word—