calmly and unshrinkingly? More need, then, that you, without delay, open the Sacred Volume.

As I returned home that evening the crystal moonlight on the sea reminded me of the sea of glass mingled with fire, and of those who had gotten the victory, and were singing the song of Moses the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb. In this world-temple we may serve God, but in that grander temple in heaven we shall more perfectly serve Him day and night. Death to the Christian is the rending of the veil which reveals the fuller glories of his Lord.

S. G. J.

THE FIELD OF BASSANO.

SEPTEMBER 8, 1796

Vide "Scott's Life of Napoleon."

So hushed the night, a leaf scarce swung,
As went the faint wind by;

The brightest moon of autumn hung
High in a cloudless sky;

And harvest home, and vintage gay,

Rejoiced beneath that mellow ray.

It lit a joyless harvest ground,

A songless vintage, where

Death's rigid hand the sheaves had bound,

And piled the cluster's race;

Above Bassano's carnage red

That pure unsullied light was shed.

There, with the moonbeams o'er them cast,

Lay foes in close embrace,

For wrath had ceased, and hatred past,
With life's last quivering trace;
The storm had raged and died, and now
Death's quietude becalmed each brow;

And ready for their graves, the slain
In ghastly heaps were strewn ;
When footsteps crossed the silent plain,
And 'neath that tranquil moon,
And 'mid the solemn hush of night,
NAPOLEON trod the scene of fight.

He paused awhile where shattered blade,
Rent plume, and mangled corse,
Marked well a spot where valour made
Vain head against his force,
Till, like a raging torrent's flow,

His conquering arms bore down the foe.

Forth from among the dead there sprang

A dog, with sudden cry,

Who bayed the chief with threatening fang, And fiercely glaring eye;

Then nestling by his master's side,

Like child in sorrow moaned and cried.

Again again, the faithful brute

Essayed revenge, yet still

Returned to him who, cold and mute,
Lay steeped in night damp's chill;
Licked the dead features wan and pale,
And raised his wild reproachful wail.
That night went past, but many an eve
With dewfall wept the brave,
And many a moon rose up to grieve

O'er bloodstained field and wave; While 'mid the outraged nation's moan, Swords built and kept Napoleon's throne.

There came a day that saw him 'reft
Of glory's crown and bays,

And in his deep abasement left

In bitterness to gaze,

Through all his bold adventurous track,

On scenes of early triumph back;

And marvel whence the pang that crept

Athwart his bosom, when

That dog upon his pathway leapt ;

Why, for one victim then,

Remorse bowed down the man whose word

Gave thousands lightly to the sword.

Oh, had the victor stayed, when warned
That fervid voice within,

Nor all that keen remonstrance scorned,
To quell whose tones was sin,
Though monarchs then had owned him not
Proud umpire of their humbled lot;

Yet never on his dying breast

Such crushing guilt had weighed,
Nor earth had gloried in her rest
When he was prostrate laid;

While from the dust, blood's fearful cry
Accused his parting soul on high.

H. F.

THE DAY OF DAYS.

It is the day when you may sit down to the Bible without fear of disturbance. It is the day when, alongside of Enoch, you may feed the flame of devotion, and try to divine the wonders and imbibe the ardour of a walk with God. It is the day when, according to your various mood, you may mourn with Abraham at Machpelah; or meditate with Isaac in the field of Mamre; or go down into Egypt to view Joseph in all his glory. It is the day when you may bid Jacob's star twinkle anew, and Zechariah's fountain flow amain. It is the day when, in the upper chamber, you may listen to a sermon of Paul, or a pilgrim to Patmos, along with the beloved disciple, see Jesus again.

And it is the day for prayer-the Sabbath itself one

closet, and your quiet chamber another-a closet within a closet, when you may surely shut out the world, and get very near to God; the day for looking back, for confession, for eyeing the Lamb that was slain; the day for looking forward, for self-dedication, for holy resolutions, for obedience begun anew.

And it is the day for public worship, when the glad bells say, "Go ye up to the house of the Lord," and the artless worshipper answers, "Thy face, Lord, will I seek."

And it is the day for Christian converse, when, coming from the house of God in company, pious friends take counsel one with another; and when, under the quiet roof, they read or go over the sermons, or commune together.

And it is the day for family instruction, when the hymns are said, and the chapters read, and the truth in Jesus expounded, and when fatherly affection strives to leave the lessons of heavenly wisdom imbedded in filial love.

It is the day for the Sabbath-school, and the prayer meeting, and the visit of mercy.

It is the day when, so that you do not exhaust yourself or overtask others, you may give every moment to the one thing needful; the day which is best employed when the soul gets all, and heaven gets all, and God gets all.

J. H.

EVENINGS WITH THE EDITOR.

EVENING THE SEVENTEENTH.

Emm. PEOPLE are talking, I find, about the restoration of the age of poetry. Do you think it has returned?

Ed. If rhymes constitute poetry, I must reply in the affirmative, for there is a vast amount of rubbish heaped on Editor's tables, which they are confidently expected to pronounce "diamonds of the first water."

Aug. Instead of which they only glitter with a sort of tinfoil lustre, and are about as valuable. I really pity you, dear Mr. Editor, having to rake up such rubbish, in a half despairing hope of discovering something of real worth.

Ed. Many thanks for your compassion, Augustus. Sometimes our research is rewarded. And whenever we find fair versification, pleasant thoughts, and a beneficial tendency, we may as well be satisfied, and gently commend, even although we do not detect the genius of the real poet, with his soul on fire. There are few real poets. There are few real appreciators of poetry. The majority of readers are pleased with rhymes that jingle smoothly and pleasantly, provided the sentiments awaken their sympathy.

Mrs. M. I think it is the same with music. A simple ballad air often pleases more than a difficult and very scientific composition, even though the latter may be a miracle of skill.

Ed. Yes, the sentiment may be comprehended without any knowledge of music, and the association of the feelings with some simple melody, especially if that melody recall other days and scenes, will awaken delightful emotions in the hearer's mind, which he easily mistakes for a true musical taste. The Ranz des Vaches, which the Alpine shepherd winds on his horn among the mountains, has so powerfully awakened the soul of Swiss soldiers when away from home, that in foreign regiments it is forbidden to be played, lest it should cause the desertion of the men. Yet, when I heard it played, I thought it a poor little air, and wondered at its magic power.

Aug. But what book of poetry, Emmeline, has been your text on this occasion ?

Emm. THOUGHTS REDEEMED,* by Mrs. Mackay. She is already favourably known as an authoress, and her poetry is above the average, although not pretending to any high standard. These small pieces have occupied her leisure hours, and cheered lonely ones. The first piece entitled "Asleep in Jesus," has already become known to several readers, and has alleviated the sorrows of many a weary invalid. It has found its way into various collections; both in this country and in America. The little poems in this volume are well tuned, the sentiment sweet and hallowed, and many of them will be gratefully welcomed in the chambers of sickness and sorrow.

Aug. If Emmeline does not like small print, I fear Mr. Editor she will seldom consult this TREASURY HARMONY.† Emm. Well, my regard for Mr. Mimpriss' labours is so great

Edinburgh: Kennedy.

+ London: Varty & Owen.