gift of a broken heart, and a contrite spirit-and offer it up to Him, to whom such a sacrifice is more acceptable than earth's richest treasures.

THE FALLING LEAVES.

Ir is the time of the falling leaf. The frost has come with its biting nip, and the forest leaves have felt its power. They are falling thick and fast from the beech and the maple, that have, during the long summer, furnished me so grateful a shade, beneath which I have spent many an hour. Here they drop, one by one, in the quiet and stillness of this bright and beautiful morning. O falling leaves, sad seems your fate! One summer only have you enjoyed, and now you fall to rise no more. But such is the doom of all like you, children of earth. Even now as you drop, one by one, you rest on the grave of youth and beauty. Already, and while I have been standing here, you have formed a covering over the bed where sleeps the long and dreamless sleep of the grave my own bright and beautiful one, who, like you, passed away. But yours is still a timely fate. You have filled your destiny. But she, alas, fell before the frost of winter or of age had come! She perished in the springtime of the year and of life. On a bright May morning, while the soft breath of spring and the genial sunshine were bringing out the flowers in all their budding beauties, she suddenly passed away. And we laid her beneath the overhanging beech. Here let her rest. O falling leaves, gather yourselves about her bed, and protect it from the beating rain, and the rude blast of the wintery wind, and the drifting snows!

Leaves of autumn, you forewarn me of my own fate. My own spring-time has past-my summer is gone-gone

from my brow, gone from my heart. Gone is the buoyancy of youth, gone the cheerfulness of the happy days. of childhood, gone the sunshine of the heart. The merry voice that once cheered my soul is hushed forever. The sunshiny brow that once reflected joy on my heart lies low beneath that bed of leaves. The gentle hand that once played with my whitening locks, and smoothed the wrinkles from my brow, now lies motionless on the breast where once beat the gentlest of human hearts.

And I, too, am on my rapid way, and soon must reach the resting-place of all that is born of earth. I must come and lie here by the side of

"The pretty child I lov'd so well.”

Another will then stand where I now do, and watch your graceful descent as you drop on the grave of the child and the father.

THE BURIAL OF BALCH.

AGAIN we meet at the sad sound of the tolling bell. Again there lies shrouded for the grave, before the sacred altar of our quiet village church, one whom we have all known, and all loved. On the declivity of the hill, whose summit is crowned by the temple of God, a grave by friendly hands is made, and there we soon must lay the manly form of Balch. Fitting place is it for the long rest of the youthful and the good. The quiet lake sleeping in rural beauty at the base of the hill, seems an emblem of the rest of those whose souls no more are disturbed by the rippling undulations of emotion, nor the deep surges of human passion. It is a spot so retired, so still, so quiet, that the genius of repose might choose it for her permanent home. To that spot have we, during the last few years, borne many a lovely one-age with gray hairs, manhood in its vigor and strength, woman in her loveliness, childhood in its beauty, and now we bear youth with all its hopes of success and of useful

ness.

Spring, in all its loveliness, had opened on the fields and about the lakes that surround this beautiful hill. The sky was clear, and the earth was beautiful. But death was here. Before this altar lay the inanimate form of as beautiful a child as human eye ever saw. Her home was far away. She had come here with her parents on a visit. A few Sabbaths she had occupied one of those seats in the Sabbath school, the personification of sprightliness and of beauty. But suddenly she fell sick. A few days only passed, a few nights of feverish agony,

and, lo, she lay there arrayed for the grave! It was sad to see the mother weep over her beautiful one, her unreturning first-born. Who, that looked beneath that coffin-lid, can forget the loveliness and beauty that slept on those cold features! We bore the little stranger to the grave that was made for her amid the shrubbery and flowers. Who may tell the sad feelings of anguish with which her parents returned to their home!

The yellow harvests of autumn were gathered in; the grass had become sear; the forest leaves were tinged with their variant hues, and some of them were fallen. Before the altar lay, shrouded and coffined for the grave, the wife and the mother-the mother whose children had daily received instruction from our lips. Who that ever knew her did not love her? Who ever looked on her benignant countenance without being reminded of the gentleness, the benevolence, the affection of the female. character? But there she lay cut down in her full strength. The rose was in its maturity; it was not faded, nor blanched by age--but the reaper's scythe had ruthlessly struck it, and its life-blood gushed out. Her we deposited in that quiet spot, and strewed the earth over her. The mother that bore her, the sister of her heart, the husband that loved her as man seldom loves, and the children of her bosom, returned to their desolate home. Who can guage the deep fountain of anguish in those bereaved hearts? Who will venture to approach them with the mockery of words?

The rose

The winter had passed, the warm breezes from the south had melted away the snow, the first flowers of May were peeping from under the dry leaf. Placed before that altar was a man of mature years, and great physical and intellectual strength. He died while yet his eye