are eighteen, and I solemnly promise you to do all that you require me ever afterwards." He that reaches his maturity without knowledge has no time left but for remorse; and he, says a distinguished moralist, that hopes to look back hereafter with satisfaction upon past years, must learn the present value of single minutes, and endeavor to let no particle of time fall useless to the ground.

He who is content, like the worthless weed, to rot where he grows, to convert his heart into a sepulchre, his garden into a grave, instead of embellishing the bosom of society by his moral and intellectual bloom and beauty, can scarcely be said to live. The true enjoyments of existence are unknown to him. He takes no delight in the accomplishments of those around him, for they remind him of his hours misspent, his faculties unimproved, his opportunities neglected; and deriving no pleasure from without, he has no world within and no world above to which he can retreat for consolation and repose.

bosom, hides his poor heart.

A cypress, not a

In this lamentable

condition he yields to the unholy blandishments of vice-herds, like the prodigal, with swineextinguishing the spark of divinity which once burned brightly within him, and prostituting his glorious birthright to perpetual shame.

THE SPIRITS OF THE DEPARTED.

BY REV. S. F. SMITH,

Prof. at Newton Theol. Sem.

HINK not, when holy ones expire,
In strong and Christian trust,
The spirit and the form we loved
Alike return to dust.

Think not, when gasping nature sinks,
When shuts the speaking eye,
When motionless the body sleeps,
This is, indeed-to die.
Dissolving nature, to the soul

Doth its true freedom give

The friends who seem to die, alone
Are those who truly live.
They live around us like the light,
They circle us above,
Lent, as our angels, to fulfil

Their ministries of love.

The spirits of the just and pure,
From earthly dross refin'd,

2

Live on, unseen by human eye,
Ethereal as the mind.

No word escapes the pallid lip,
Where death has set his seal,
No heavenly harps, to mortal ear
Their holy joys reveal;

No hand, with gentle pressure, soothes
The mourner, when, alone,

His smitten heart in grief o'erflows
Beside the funeral stone;

But they, who loved us once on earth,
Though absent, love us still,
And watching round our couch, for us
Their Master's charge fulfil;

As guardian spirits o'er the good,
To them this trust is given,—
To linger near us, while we live,
Then welcome us to heaven.

FOUR PERIODS IN LIFE..

0

BY REV. R. H. NEALE,

OF BOSTON.

Na recent visit to New York I spent some time in the Gallery of the Fine Arts. I was particularly struck with some pictures sketched by Mr. Cole, representing four periods of human life.

The first painting represents a smiling, playful infant in a boat, its hands full of flowers, and floating on a stream which springs fresh and sparkling from the mountain rock; around are grassy banks covered with the fresh beauties of spring; the dew of morning and the first rays of the rising sun invest the scene only with new and increased attractions. In the stern of the boat is represented the child's guardian angel, having