And everlasting life after death ?

ON TIME.

Milton.

LY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entombed,

And last of all thy greedy self consumed,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss ;

And joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne

Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb, Then, (all this earthly grossness quit,)

Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.

The Resurrection of the flesh; and everlasting life after

Death?

GOD'S ACRE.

H. W. Longfellow.

I

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just ;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed that they have garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God:

This is the place where human harvests grow!

Gverlasting life after death?

NOVEMBER.

H. F. Lyte.

TH

HE autumn wind is moaning low the requiem of the year;

The days are growing short again, the fields forlorn

and sere;

The sunny sky is waxing dim, and chill the hazy

air;

And tossing trees before the breeze are turning brown and bare.

All nature and her children now prepare for rougher

days:

The squirrel makes his winter bed, and hazel hoard

purveys;

The sunny swallow spreads his wings to seek a brighter sky;

And boding owl, with nightly howl, says cloud and storm are nigh.

No more 'tis sweet to walk abroad among the evening dews:

The flowers are fled from every path, with all their scents and hues :

The joyous bird no more is heard, save where his slender song

The robin drops, as meek he, hops the withered leaves among.

Those withered leaves, that slender song, a solemn truth convey,—

In wisdom's ear they speak aloud of frailty and

decay:

They say, that man's appointed year shall have its winter too;

Shall rise and shine, and then decline, as all around him do.

They tell him, all he has on earth, his brightest dearest things,

His loves and friendships, joys and hopes, have all their falls and springs :

A wave upon a moon-lit sea, a leaf before the blast, A summer flower, an April hour, that gleams and hurries past.

And be it so I know it well: myself, and all that's mine,

Must roll on with the rolling year, and ripen to decline.

I do not shun the solemn truth: to him it is not

drear

Whose hopes can rise above the skies, and see a Saviour near.

It only makes him feel with joy, this earth is not his home;

It sends him on from present ills to brighter hours

to come:

It bids him take with thankful heart whate'er his God may send,

Content to go through weal or woe to glory in the end.

Then murmur on, ye wintry winds; remind me of my doom:

Ye lengthened nights, still image forth the darkness of the tomb.

Eternal summer lights the heart where Jesus deigns to shine.

I mourn no loss, I shun no cross, so Thou, O Lord, art mine!