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If in this bosom aught but thee,
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But, ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resign'd,

I'll thank th' infliction of the blow, Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,

Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

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WA

THE LAST OF THE POOR SLAVE.

(Mrs Stowe)

AS he alone that long night, whose brave loving spirit was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal

stripes?

Nay! There stood by him One, seen by him alone, "like unto the Son of God." The tempter stood by him, too, blinded by furious despotic will, every moment pressing him to shun that agony, by the betrayal of the innocent. But the brave true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayer and holy trust.

"He's most gone, mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by the patience of his victim.

"Pay away till he gives up! Give it to him! Give it to him!" shouted Legree. "I'll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses."

Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. "Ye poor miserable critter!" he said, "there an't no more ye can do! I forgive ye with all my soul!" and he fainted entirely away.

"I b'lieve my soul he's done for, finally," said Legree, stepping forward to look at him. "Yes, he is! Well, his mouth's shut up at last, that's one comfort!"

Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul—that soul past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never shall be quenched is already burning?

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks who had been the instruments of cruelty upon him; and the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and in their ignorance sought to call him back to life—as if that were any favour to him.

"Sartain we's been doin' a drefful wicked thing!" said Sambo; hopes mas'r'll have to 'count for it, and not we."

They washed his wounds-they provided a rude bed of some refuse cotton for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was tired and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom's throat.

"O Tom," said Quimbo, "we's been awful wicked to ye!" "I forgive ye with all my heart," said Tom, faintly.

"O Tom! Do tell us who is Jesus any how!" said Sambo, "Jesus that's been astandin' by you so all this night,-who is He?"

The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One,-His life, His death. His everlasting presence, and power to save.

They wept-both the savage men.

"Why didn't I never hear this before?" said Sambo; "but I do believe! I can't help it! Lord Jesus have mercy on us.'

"Poor critters!" said Tom, "I'd be willing to bar' all I have if it'll only bring ye to Christ! O Lord! give me these two more souls, I pray."

That prayer was answered.

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RIGHTFUL to all men is Death; from of old named King of Terrors. Our little compact home of an Existence, where we dwelt complaining, yet as in a home, is passing in dark agonies into an Unknown of Separation, Foreignness, unconditioned Possibility. The Heathen Emperor asks of his soul: Into what places art thou now departing? The Catholic King must answer: To the Judgment-bar of the Most High God! Yes, it is a summing-up of Life; a final settling and giving-in the "account of the deeds done in the body:" they are done now, and lie there unalterable, and do bear their fruits, long as Eternity shall last.

Yes, poor Louis, Death has found thee. No palace-walls or life

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