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commune with them in our minds.

We remember them as they were, and indulge our affections; we think of them as they are, and we stretch forward into an eternal world, rending the veil that separates us, and realize that day, when we hope, nay, trust, again to be united to them. In the midst of our tearful reminiscences we take heart: "I know that my Redeemer liveth," comes to our relief, and the words also, "I am the Resurrection, and the Life he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die," John xi. 25, 26.

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True it is, that in the night season we have often strange dreams. We get into situations of danger, and circumstances of overwhelming trouble. We appear to be so cast into the horrible pit and the miry clay, that there is no hope for us. We are down, and we can never rise up again; but then, in the season of our extremity, we awake, and behold! it is a dream.

The season of night defends us from so many evils, and confers upon us so many blessings, that we cannot be sufficiently grateful for so invaluable a gift. In that blessed world which is to come it will not be required; there will be no night there. In the presence of the Lord there

will be fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. "Blessing, and honour, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever," Rev. v. 13.

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IS THERE A GOD?

Now breathes the ruddy morn around
Her health restoring gales,

And from the chambers of the east
A flood of light prevails.

Is there a God? Yon rising sun
An answer meet supplies;
Writes it in flame upon the earth,
Proclaims it round the skies.

The pendent clouds that curtain round
This sublunary ball,
And firmament on high declare
A God that governs all.

The warbling lark in realms of air,

Has trill'd her matin lay;
The balmy breeze of morn is fled,
It is the noon of day.

Is there a God? Hark! from on high
His thunder shakes the poles :

I hear his voice in every wind,
In every wave that rolls.

I read a record of his love,

His wisdom, and his power, Inscribed on all created things, Man, beast, and herb, and flower.

The sultry sun has left the skies,
And day's delights are flown;
The owlet screams amid the shade,
And night resumes her throne.

Is there a God? With sacred fear
I upward turn mine eyes;
There is, each glittering lamp of light-
There is! my soul replies.

If such convictions to my brain
His works alone impart;
Oh, may the wisdom of his word
Inscribe them on my heart!

That while I ponder on his deeds,
And read his truths Divine,
Nature may point me to a God,

And grace may make him mine.

HOW DO YOU GET ON?

"How do you get on?" is a very common-place inquiry we have all asked it and answered it again and again. But common-place as is the question, it is an important one, and capable of a very extended application. True it is that the phrase belongs more to low life, than to the more refined circles of society; yet is it not on this account to be passed by. He who would get wisdom, must both climb and stoop to attain it, as the botanist gathers his plants from the highest hills and the lowest valleys.

Most of us learn much more from low life than from high life-at least I do—and for this simple reason, it is easier to get at. Where I speak once to a nobleman, I speak

many times to a

poor man; and for every ride I have in a carriage-and-four, I have at least a hundred in an omnibus.

"How do you get on?" said a ruddy-faced man to one habited in a great coat, whose cheeks were thin and pale. "Very slowly," replied the invalid. "This ague that has laid hold of me,

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