and narrow way which leadeth unto life. And seeing, as I continually do, thousands and thousands of my fellow men jostling down the inclined plain, pressing towards the bridge, crowding upon it, heedlessly thinking it will carry them safely over, and not dreaming of danger, till they make their last plunge, and are gone for ever;—seeing all this continually passing before my eyes, how can I hold my peace? How can I cease to cry in the ears of deluded mortals,

'Stop, poor sinner, stop and think,
Before you farther go!'

I am blamed, and have been, for much on the subject of religion. for not doing a great deal more.

still before me.

saying and doing so But I blame myself The vision, though

years have now passed away since first I saw it, is The feelings which I then had are fresh upon me. And while these remain, I can never cease to warn the wicked of his way; to tell him of the impassable bridge, and the devouring flood; and to point him upward to the path of life."

I listened to the narrative of my aged friend with intense interest. His eye kindled, and his whole soul seemed to glow with heavenly fire, while the words fell from his lips. O, could a vision such as this open upon the eyes of professing Christians generally, how differently would they feel, and live, and labor, from what many among them do at present!

Bangor, (Me.)

POOR CHERRY'S MATIN SONG.

BY REV. JOHN M'VICAR, D. D.

DURING a winter's passage across the Atlantic, some years since, a beautiful little Canary bird hung in the vessel's cabin near my state-room door. In calm weather he was generally silent, but his song came with the gale, and was ever loudest and sweetest when the hearts and voices of the passengers were most desponding-an event which generally occurred at night, when the terrors of darkness were added to those of storm. One night in particular, during the whole of which we were in imminent danger, his cheering song was the only sound of comfort that could be heard amid the howlings of the tempest, and it always rose highest, and as it were, into its most triumphant notes, in the moments of greatest peril. It helped to cheer me at least through a long, sleepless, and most anxious night, and suggested on rising in the following morning, the following lines; the reading of them to our kind-hearted captain, procured for me, when we made land, a reward far beyond their merits; the little prisoner was my prize, and poor Cherry continued for years to be my companion in a quieter home than where I first made his acquaintance, to soothe, and I trust, instruct me amid other trials than those of the ocean.

TEACH, lovely songster, teach to me

That matin hymn of praise;
Which on this dark and stormy sea,
I hear thee nightly raise.

It cheers me on my restless couch,
It lifts my soul on high,

For it sounds above the rushing surge,
Like music from the sky.

Say not from thoughtless breast it springs

Unconscious of alarm;

'Tis Nature's prayer thy spirit wings; To heaven thou fliest from harm.

To rest on Him who gave thee breath,
Of life the Lord and King;
And mid these fearful shapes of death,
A fearless homage bring.

To God thy little voice is tuned,
His power and love its themes;
His power which in this tempest speaks,
His love which through it beams.

Hark! yet again that heartfelt thrill,
To shame my coward fears;
With pious trust my soul to fill,
And give me smiles for tears.

For oh! if nature's promptings swell
Such meaner breasts with love,
How should the voice of Christian tell
Man's brighter hopes above.

Then how can I, the heir of life,

Whom Jesus died to save,
Forget that mid the ocean's strife,
Still, Mercy walks the wave.

"Fear not, 'tis I," that word divine
Brings sunshine to my breast;
And with a thankful song like thine,
In heaven I'll seek my rest.

Then thanks, sweet bird! thou'st taught to me,

Thy matin hymn of praise;

And on this dark and stormy sea

I'll emulate thy lays.

And still, life's stormy waves among,
In sorrow's darkest hour,

I'll think I hear thy cheering song,
And feel and bless its power.

And when the waves of death roll high,
My frail bark tempest driven,
Like thee I'll seek a brighter sky,
And spread my wings for Heaven.

New York.

THE RAFT;

OR,

THE WIDOW'S TWO SONS.

BY REV. J. TODD.

THE traveler, who at this day, mounts the stage at any of our great starting-points for the White Mountains, and who, as he draws near that region of wonders, gazes in astonishment at the handy workmanship of the Eternal, cannot now see the region as it was some thirty or forty years ago. The roads are now good, the conveyances rapid and convenient, the habitations of men more plenty, and the country every way more subdued. Trees, which for generations grew undisturbed in these distant nooks and valleys, have had the "feller" come up against them, have been subjected to the power of the saw, and after winding down the beautiful and modest stream of the Connecticut, are now converted into the splendid dwellings of those who could afford to use them. Now, the carriages of the wealthy are no strangers here. The gay and the fashionable sometimes throng hither. The belle comes here to see and to be seen; and many a pigeon and hawk takes wing as the weary city-gentleman raises his gun, and with a loud noise thus "makes the feathers fly." The cold streams