THE DEPARTURE.

"'T Is but one little year, love!' the young sailor cried, As he pressed a fond kiss on the cheek

Of the graceful young being who stood at his side

In anguish too bitter to speak.

'Tis but one little year, love! O, doubt not the vow
That is breathed in a moment like this,

But chase the dark shadows away from your brow
And bid me farewell with a kiss.'

She turned, and with lips that were pallid and cold,
A kiss on his own she impressed,

Then clasping his neck with a passionate fold,
She clung with wild sobs to his breast.

'Nay! cheer up, my darling! 'T is idle to grieve;
Have faith in a moment like this,

And promise me, ere mine own loved one I leave,

She will welcome me back with a kiss!'

The wild sobbings ceased; a sad smile struggled through

The tears of the pallid young bride,

And a soft, timid blush o'er her fair features flew

As, I'll welcome thee thus !' she replied.

He departed; but memory lingered to keep
The hues of past happiness bright;

And a voice to her soul whispered, 'Over the deep
God watches by day and by night!'

C. M. S.

INFLUENCE OF DEPARTED FRIENDS.

BY REV. A. D. MAYO.

THERE can be few subjects of religious contemplation more interesting to us than this; for who has lived to the age of reflection without being called to regret the departure of some one very dear to his soul? Daily and hourly are spirits going away from this world to another, leaving men bowed with grief, longing to call after them and learn something of the awful secrets of the future. And at such periods we are all too much inclined to forget our belief in the immortality of the soul, and mourn as those who have no hope.' The crushing sense of present loss is too much for our faith. The eyes of our flesh are open to discover the places made vacant by the absence of those we have loved; but the eyes of our spirit are closed upon the greatest realities. We think of what our friends have been to us, not of what they are now; and thus our sorrow is changed from a holy and elevating remembrance of the departed, to a personal and selfish regret that they are no longer with us.

I am not inclined to censure this feeling too

strongly, although I know it arises from weakness of religious belief. I am as ready as any one to acknowledge the beauty of that perfect trust that can follow the fleeting spirit from its deserted body, through the valley of the shadow of death, into the mysterious abodes of 'the world we have not seen,' that can sustain itself upon the remembrance of its love, and beyond this can even persuade itself that it holds intercourse with beings that have put on immortality.' I reverence such a faith, but I rarely see it. Only in a few high and pure souls has it been my privilege to admire such an exhibition of the elevating power of Christianity. Most of us bear our human weakness still about us, and can be reconciled to God's providences only by the restraining power of time.

And yet, though I would not speak harshly of the indulgence of sorrow in any one, I cannot repress a feeling of pain that our belief in a future life gives us so little aid in times of affliction. How often must we be reminded that Jesus Christ has 'abolished death;' that all the powers in the uni. verse cannot kill a human soul; that those who have departed from the body are now in contact with all the great realities of things; that we, who are struggling down here in our sins and sorrows, are the dead and buried; that they who above are advancing in love and power, are alive? Shall