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that where a man works about twelve hours a-daywith proper regard to method, and to the discharge of relative duty-he should be perfectly able, on an average, to get through all necessary business within that period.

IMMORTALITY.

Rev. W. E. CHANNING, D.D.

WHEN I think of myself as existing through all future ages—as surviving this earth and that sky-as exempted from every imperfection and error of my present beingas clothed with an angel's glory—as comprehending with my intellect, and embracing in my affections an extent of creation, compared with which the earth is a point—when I think of myself—as looking on the outward universe, with an organ of vision that will reveal to me a beauty, and harmony, and order, not now imagined—and as having an access to the minds of the wise and good, which will make them in a sense my own ;-when I think of myself—as forming friendships with innumerable beings, of rich and various intellect, and of the noblest virtue-as introduced to the society of heaven-as meeting there the great and excellent, of whom I have read in history—as joined with the “just made perfect,” in an ever-enlarging ministry of benevolence—as conversing with Jesus Christ, with the familiarity of friendship-and especially, as having an immediate intercourse with God, such as the closest intimacies of earth dimly shadow forth ;-when this thought of my future being comes upon me,—whilst I hope, I also fear, the blessedness seems too great; the consciousness of present weakness and unworthiness is almost too strong for hope.

But when, in this frame of mind, I look round on the creation, and see there the marks of an Omnipotent Goodness, to which nothing is impossible, and from which everything may be hoped—when I see around me the proofs of an Infinite Father, who must desire the perpetual progress of his intellectual offspring—when I look, next, at the human mind, and see what powers a few years have unfolded, and discern in it the capacity of everlasting improvement-and, especially, when í look at Jesus, the conqueror of death, the heir of immortality, who has gone, as the forerunner of mankind, into the mansions of light and purity,- I can and do admit the almost overpowering thought, of the everlasting life-growth-felicity of the human soul.

HOW LITTLE BESSIE FELL ASLEEP.

ANONYMOUS.

Hug me closer, closer, mother,

Put your arms around me tight;
I am cold and tired, mother,

And I feel so strange to-night!
Something hurts me here, dear mother,

Like a stone upon my breast;
Oh! I wonder, wonder, mother,

Why it is I cannot rest.

All the day, while you were working,

As I lay upon the bed,
I was trying to be patient,

And to think of what you said;
How the kind and blesséd Jesus

Loves his lambs to watch and keep,
And I wish He'd come and take me

In His arms that I might sleep.

Just before the lamp was lighted-
Just before the children came-

When the room was very quiet,

I heard some one call my name; All at once the window open'd,

In a field were lambs' and sheep; Some from out a brook were drinking,

Some were lying fast asleep!

But I could not see the Saviour,

Though I strain'd my eyes to see, And I wonder'd if he saw me,

If He'd speak to such as me! On a sudden I was gazing

On a world so bright and fair; It was full of happy children,

And they seemed so happy there.

They were singing, oh, so sweetly!

Sweeter songs I never heard. They were singing sweeter, mother,

Than can sing our yellow bird. And while I my breath was holding,

One so bright upon me smiled, And I knew it must be Jesus,

When he said, “ Come here, my child !

“Come up here, my little Bessie !

Come up here, and live with me, Where the children never suffer,

But are happier than you see.' Then I thought of all you

told meOf that bright and happy land : I was going when you call’d me

When you came and kiss'd my hand.

And at first I felt so sorry

You had call’d me; I would go, Oh! to sleep, and never suffer.

Mother, don't be crying so !

Hug me closer, closer, mother!

Put your arms around me tight;
Oh, how much I love you, mother !

But I feel so strange to-night!"

And the mother pressed her closer

To her overburdened breast;
On the heart so nigh to breaking,

Lay the heart so near its rest.
In the solemn hour of midnight,

In the stillness dark and deep,
Lying on her mother's bosom

Little Bessie fell asleep!

THE TWO WEAVERS.

MRS. HANNAH MORE.

As at their work two weavers sat
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat !

“What with my babes and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, “I am almost tired of life;
So hard we work, so poor we fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

“How glorious is the rich man's state !
His house so fine, his wealth so great !
Heaven is unjust, you must agree :
Why all to him, and none to me?
"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the pulpit preaches,
This world, -indeed, I've thought so long,-
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

“ Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and opprest,
And all the wicked are the blest.”

Quoth John, “Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws,
Parts of His ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below.

" Seest thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there!
So rude the mass, it makes one stare !

A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed:
For where's the middle, where's the border ? ·
Thy carpet now is all disorder."
Quoth Dick, “My work is yet in bits:
But still in every part it fits :
Besides, you reason like a lout;
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."

Says John, “ Thou sayest the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen:
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

“No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace ;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper

side.

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