man, which gives savor of his goodness to all who approach, and through which the internal light of his soul beams out upon all observers. Consequently, if you allow yourself in a allow yourself in a deportment inconsistent with Christian uprightness, propriety, and charity, you are guilty of bringing contradiction and disgrace on the principles which you profess; you expose yourself to the charge of hypocritically maintaining truths to which you do not conform yourself. You dishonor your religion by causing it to appear unequal to that dominion over the human character which it claims to exert. All men know that, if "the salvation reigned within," it would regulate the movements of the life as surely as the internal motions of the watch are indicated on its face; if the hands point wrong, they know, without looking further, that there is disorder within. That disorder they will attribute either to the incapacity of the principle, or to your unfaithfulness in applying it. But, what is of far greater importance, the holy and unerring judgment of God will ascribe it to the single cause of your own unfaithfulness; and for all your wanderings from Christian constancy, and all the consequent dishonor to the Christian name, you must bear the shame and reproach in the final day of account.

Maria Gowen Brooks.

BORN about 1795, Medford, Mass. DIED in Matanzas, Cuba, 1845.

DEATH OF ALTHEËTOR.

[Zóphiel; or, The Bride of Seven. By Maria del Occidente. 1833.-Edited by Z. B. Gustafson. 1879.]

HE hides her face upon her couch, that there

SHE

She may not see him die. No groan!-she springs,

Frantic between a hope-beam and despair,

And twines her long hair round him as he sings.

Then thus: "O being, who unseen but near
Art hovering now, behold and pity me!
For love, hope, beauty, music, all that's dear,
Look-look on me, and spare my agony!

"Spirit! in mercy, make not me the cause,

The hateful cause, of this kind being's death!

In pity kill me first! He lives! he draws

Thou will not blast ?-he draws his harmless breath!"

Still lives Altheëtor; still unguarded strays
One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul
Is lost,—given up: he fain would turn to gaze,
But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole

Through every vein, and thrilled each separate nerve,
Himself could not have told, all wound and clasped
In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve
To save him?

What a sea of sweets!" he gasped;

But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing. Still swelled the transport: "Let me look-and thank," He sighs, celestial smiles his lip inwreathing:

"I die-but ask no more," he said, and sank

Still by her arms supported-lower-lower-
As by soft sleep oppressed: so calm, so fair,
He rested on the purple tapestried floor,
It seemed an angel lay reposing there.

THE MATES.

[From the Same.]

HE bard has sung, God never formed a soul

TH

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet

Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole
Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete.

But thousand evil things there are that hate

To look on happiness: these hurt, impede,

And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,
Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed.

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,

Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream;

So many a soul o'er life's drear desert faring,—

Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,

Suffers, recoils; then, thirsty and despairing

Of what it would, descends, and sips the nearest draught.

IN

THE WIDOW WERTHER.

[Idomen; or, the Vale of Yumuri. 1843.]

N the course of the theatric entertainment, I looked a moment towards the box of Lord De, and saw him who had appeared to me like a deity, on earth, surrounded by gay, trifling ladies, who kept him in continual conversation.

VOL. V.-23