150 CHRIST AT THE GRAVE OF LAZARUS.

Lead on, meek sisters! joyfully lead on,

Unto the place where, cold, your brother lies; Roll from its entrance the entombing stone,

Which cloisters thus that lost one from your eyes! Here, stranger, pause; let gloom forsake your brow; Hope lends a ray to cheer the mourner now.

Bend low the knee! uplift the reverent heart!
E'en Heaven sits mute to hear its fav'rite pray:
Christ asks of God such vigor to impart

As will reanimate yon pallid clay.

Stranger, be calm!

Death trembles on his throne:

His bands are broken!

Hark! 'tis the Saviour,

God has heard his Son!

-"Lazarus, come forth!".

Soft as night's sigh, the voice of Jesus is; Yet, O how potent! it could chain the earth, Or, every orb unfixing, loose the skies! Grim Hades wrestles with it now in vainVain its defiance - Laz'rus lives again!

O stranger! stranger! what a scene is this!

The dead restored! Can human thought conceive The marvel? yet, 'tis all-entrancing bliss

To know the marvel wrought! Did Christ retrieve One from the grave? then, Death, thy realm resign; His is a sceptre even o'ermastering thine!

OCEAN.

BY MRS. SARAH BROUGHTON.

WHAT hallowed emotions steal over the soul,
While straying where ocean-waves playfully roll,
And yielding ourselves to the song of the surge,
That is sounding, still sounding, a funeral dirge
O'er the hopes that lie buried within the green halls,
The dim reedy chambers where sunlight ne'er falls!

There the foam-crested billow goes dancing along,
And the shelly strand echoes the wind's dying song;
The glad waters leap, and the bright sparkles play,
In the sweet parting smile of the monarch of day,
As he sinks to his rest in the bright coral caves,

Where the sea-nymphs are sporting beneath the green waves,
And wreathing their locks with the bright ocean flowers,
That beam like soft stars in the crystalline bowers;
Or flinging their tresses abroad to the storm,

Whose dark rolling chariot the lightning beams warm;
Where the pillars of amber are studded with gems,
And anemones droop on their delicate stems;
Where the feathery waves, that so gracefully curl,
On the gold-sanded pavements strew diamonds and pearl.

How sweetly is swelling the echoing moan,
Ere the sea-minstrel wakes to the tempest's shrill tone;
While he sings in the clefts of the wave-beaten shore,
Not madly, as when to the billow's wild roar

He strikes the loud harp-strings with answering sweep,

That resounds through the tempest-stirred realms of the deep;

But reedy and low as the music that thrills
Where the breeze softly sighs o'er the murmuring rills,
And flower-bells are ringing the vespers at eve,
While zephyrs take, slowly, their tremulous leave!
How solemnly pleasing the harp-tone that swells
Where the nereids are tuning their rose-tinted shells!
While the wind-god is sleeping in coralline caves,
And the swan dips her plumes in the slumbering waves;
While zephyrs are dancing o'er islets of foam,
And the sailor-boy dreams of his sweet cottage home!

But when the war-eagles their dark pinions plume,
And the thunder-drum roars through the deepening gloom;
When the sea-bird is screaming above the tall mast,
And the death-angel's shriek wildly rings on the blast;
When the mountain-waves rear their black masses on high,
And the ill-fated ship seems to ride on the sky;
When eddying chasms yawn darkly beneath,

And shadows seem beckoning to mansions of death,

How the heart shrinks appalled! how the warm blood congeals!

While the thunder roars out its terrible peals,

And the minute-guns moaningly boom o'er the main,
And mingle their groans with the dash of the rain!

But though the stern demons of conflict may lower,
And ocean awake in his terrible power,

Though the billows may lift their white garlands on high,
And phalanx on phalanx of clouds sweep the sky,
When the tempest-king musters his forces afar,
And the wind-heralds peal the wild clarion of war;
Yet the soul that is girt with the armor of faith,
May smile, though it ride on the surges of death.

MY STUDY.

BY J. G. ADAMS.

AMID earth's crowds and solitudes, there are certain spots more sacred to us than others, calling up delightful and hallowing associations. In the enclosed cities of the dead, there are resting-places of the loved and gone peculiarly dear to us. Among the constellations of the evening sky there are stars which to our individual eyes appear brighter and more sacred than others of the sparkling multitude. And so in all things we have our choice, our favorites, our sources, objects, and places of special delight. In accordance with this elevating truth, I have chosen me a peculiar object, place, and theme-all in one- with which to introduce myself to the reader of these pages. It is, Let me not be accused of egotism. If it were possible for the reader to realize for one moment what a charm is imparted to this heart by the simple expression which heads this article, he might the more clearly appreciate the thoughts which follow.

MY STUDY.

My study: do you ask what it is? I answer, not the studio of the artist, who is wearing out his

life in continual efforts to excel, and who imparts to dull canvass the forms of life, and freshness, and beauty; not the philosopher's room, where, amidst ponderous tomes, and rubbish of tried experiments, and superabounding dust, an embodied abstract, in the shape of a man, is seen; it is not the splendid study of the statesman; nor the orderly looking one of the money-making village lawyer; nor that of the physician of sleepless nights and undying sympathies. No; it is the study of a humble proclaimer of the gospel of peace.

And where is it? Reader, no matter. If it were in Africa or Brazil, in Siberia or Rome, in India at the east, or Oregon at the "far west," if my study, with its order, peace, and modesty of pretension, it would be enough for me, as a study. Location no more makes enjoyment than age makes a man old. After sixty or seventy, the man may be young. In the monotonous unpleasantness of outward circumstances, the "inner man may experience continual, fresh delight. The study in which I now write is, save the pulpit, the "pleas

antest place to me in the wide, wide world. It is just what I need; is ample enough in provision for my intellect in its present state; and it yields me as much of happiness as I deserve to enjoy, or have any just reason to expect.

Happy, sacred hours have I passed here. When the labors of the joyous, solemn Sabbath were over; when, after attending where prayer and praise were