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stretches before them, and above is an atmosphere like a burning blast. Around lie drifted sandheaps and bare rocks, the haunts of wild beasts and wilder men—a region whose very fountains murmur, “Drink and away!" "What can be more exciting?" exclaims our traveller, in his recollections of the desert, "what more sublime? Man's heart bounds in his breast at the thought of measuring his puny force with nature's might, and of emerging triumphant from the trial. Though your mouth glows, and your skin is parched, yet you feel no languor, the effect of humid heat; your lungs are lightened, your sight brightens, your memory recovers its tone, and your spirits become exuberant; your fancy and imagination are powerfully aroused, and the wildness and sublimity of the scenes around you stir up all the energies of your soul, whether for exertion, danger, or strife."

As the black shadow mounted in the east, the sign that the hour for evening prayer is come, a halt is commanded; and then again, after a short rest, each man mounts his dromedary, and speeds away, till weary and exhausted, at midnight, the centre station of the route is reached. They lie down, the heavy dews descending upon them, the moon beaming brightly overhead, and the jackal howling their lullaby. Another day of similar exertion, and at night they pass through the tumbling gateway of Suez, to seek repose at the "George Inn," the ragged walls and comfortless rooms of which, alas! have none of the charms of a civilized, or even a desert life.

AN ERRING DAUGHTER'S LAMENT.

BEYOND the dreary ocean tide,

A stranger and distress'd,
I'm sitting by a lone fireside,
A sick babe on my breast;
Lulling his fever'd agony

And murmurs faint and low,
And thinking how you cherish'd me,

My mother, long ago!—

How tenderly you nursed me long ago!

The midnight darkens in the sky,

And shades this foreign street,
Where only now and then go by
The steps of hurrying feet.
But the foot I wait for lingers still,
And when it comes, I know
"Twill only bring new shame to fill

My swelling cup of woe;

Alas! for love, struggling with shame and woe!

How could it be that heaven would bless

My heart's unworthy choice,
When, cruel in my wilfulness,

I scorn'd your pleading voice;
Flinging your lifelong love away,
For a love untried, untrue?
But I've lived to see my gourd decay,

And turn and weep for you

Mother, in vain to yearn and weep for you.

There's yet a sharper grief than this
May pierce me as a dart;
Perchance the pining babe I kiss
And fondle at my heart,
May yet revive and bloom again,
Restored as from the dead,

To wring my soul with bitter pain,

And bow with shame my head

Mother, as I have shamed your drooping head,

I've seen all joy the world can give,
All pleasure gold can buy;

Yet if it might be mine to live

Once more in revel high,

I'd rather waste my years as now,
Neglected, lone and poor,

To feel your lips upon my brow,

And be your child once moreMother, to be your own loved child once more!

Oh, for the swallow's rapid wing,

To bear me past the wave,

That I might go where bluebells spring

Above my father's grave;

And kneeling wait there till you came

To weep upon the sod,

And say, "Forgive me, in the name

Of him who rests with God

Mother, for love of him who rests with God."

Pray for me, mother: once I lay
Rock'd on your loving breast;
And pray for him who lured away
Your young bird from its nest;
Because, 'mid all my husband's sin
I love him tenderly,

And for his soul your prayer may win

The boon denied to me

God may heed you, though silent still to me.

Oh, when my husband's heart was mine,

I rested in its love,

And never sought its clasp to twine

Round holier things above;

And heaven has curs'd my selfishness,
Making that love my bane,

Till now in utter wretchedness

I pray-and is it vain ?

Mother, oh say, can God be sought in vain?

It well might be so; it were just
To bid me quite despair;

Yet though too sad for hope or trust,

My spirit clings to prayer.

And if he perish, it shall be

The while my bitter cry

Is lifted up unceasingly

To Him who rules on high.

Oh, mother! pray with me to God on high.

H. F.

ALFRED REYNOLDS; OR, THE PLIABLE
DISPOSITION.

MANY years ago I had a Bible-class, composed of respectable, well-educated young men; and, to their old pastor at least, the page in real life which their subsequent histories have formed, has always been interesting and heart-moving. Sad memories, indeed, linger around the names of some of them; but many, I am thankful to say, have turned out well in the highest sense of the word; and frequently my quiet retreat is enlivened, and the evening of my life cheered, by their visits, and by the youthful

When,

recollections which they never fail to enkindle. a short time ago, a number of my former scholars-many of them husbands and fathers now-came, as they said, to take me by storm, and to have a talk with me, as was their wont in days gone by, I confess that even Henry Saunders, the most sedate amongst them, found it a difficult matter to make me believe that I was a man fast approaching threescore years and ten. Such a thrill of boyish feeling leaped into my frost-bitten limbs, that for awhile I forgot all about my grey hairs, wrinkled face, and tottering frame: even the rheumatics, from which I had been grievously suffering for some time, melted away under the genial warmth and light of friendship's sun. I would not allow any one to help me on with my great coat when we went for a stroll into the orchard behind my house, and I climbed over the stile that led into it without assistance. So boastful are old men sometimes, dear young readers!

Delightful evenings do I every now and then spend with my boys, as I still call them. It is so cheering to the aged to come in contact with the youthful spirits who are gradually rising to occupy the places of responsibility and trust which must soon become vacant. The old and young ought to know each other well, and to be mutually helpful and encouraging; so that the decrepitude of age may be strengthened by the enthusiasm of youth, and that youth also may be mellowed and tempered by the experience and prudence of age. This is the conclusion I always arrive at in the silence which succeeds the departure of my old pupils. But frequently, after they have left me, I find myself thinking of other members of the class; and there, in the book of remembrance, I discover many a leaf that has a black border around it, and many a record which one would fain wish to expunge, if that were possible. Occupying a prominent place in the pages of the past was the brief history of one Alfred Reynolds, which, for the instruction of those who may read it, I will now pen down as faithfully as I can. Alas! only too faithfully does memory recall every particular of it.

He was the son of highly intelligent parents, and had been articled to a solicitor about eighteen months when he sought permission to join my Bible-class. He had received

a good school education, and, for a youth, was very well read in general literature. To a prepossessing appearance and great conversational power, he joined agreeable and graceful manners; and the clear melody of his voice and his proficiency in music made his presence at the assemblies of his friends always a desideratum. One could not know him long without loving him; and I soon began to take a deep interest in Alfred, and to cherish fond hopes with regard to the part he was to perform in life. There could not have been a more ingenuous, open-hearted young man, nor one more ready to sink all selfish considerations in the desire to afford pleasure to others. But although he possessed many admirable qualities, his heart was not fortified by vital religion, nor had he taken to himself the whole armour of God; and my great fear was lest his unsuspecting nature might prove a snare to him when he came in contact with those who were less honest than himself. He was by far too willing to fall in with the views and feelings of others; and his desire to please diminished his power to say NO to the temptations and allurements which were around him. While living with those who loved him and fully appreciated the generosity of his disposition, I knew that he would not be imposed upon; but I dreaded his stepping forth into a world where so many stand waiting to make victims of the unguarded and inexperienced. I tried several times to communicate to him the anxiety which the insight I had into his character inspired within me, and I endeavoured to impress upon him as seriously as I could, that morality and generosity of disposition were but poor safeguards against the attacks of the world, the flesh, and the devil; but dreading nothing and suspecting nothing, he would answer all admonitions with a smile of hope, as if I were drawing a picture of the world that had anything but reality for its basis. Still he took such an interest in the Sabbath exercises of the class, and the essays he used occasionally to write were so well thought out, and expressed in such chaste language, that I used sometimes to hope that my fears were groundless, and that God in his own unerring way was leading him to

himself.

He had been a member of my class for more than twelve months before I began to discern any lack of in

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