ters. As she dwelt on his sublime flights of seraph-like song, and caught new light from his luminous spirit, her affections began to be engaged in one whom she never saw, nor ever expected to see. She wrote in a letter to a friend: "In one happy night I read my husband's poem the Messiah. I was extremely touched with it. The next day I asked one of his friends who was the author of this poem; and this was the first time I heard Klopstock's name."

In 1751, Klopstock, having received an invitation from Frederick V. to visit the Danish court, set out for Copenhagen, and on his journey stopped at Hamburgh. He was informed of the interest that Miss Moller took in his poetry, and learning something of her elegant taste and excellence of character, he made her a visit. Lavater, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the Messiah, calls Klopstock "that confidant of the angels." He was indeed a most humble and exemplary man, and there were times of poetic inspiration, when his pure spirit seemed to gleam with seraphic fire. He united a masculine genius to a womanly tenderness of thought and feeling, and in disposition and tastes, he was a perfect counterpart of Margaretta Moller. The meeting of these congenial spirits could hardly fail to enkindle a flame of pure, trustful love. Klopstock went to the splendors of the Danish court, enamored of Meta, and Miss Moller declared after his departure that her thoughts were all of Klopstock. A correspondence followed, and in a year he again visited Hamburgh, when the happy lovers were betrothed. Two years afterwards they were married.

The married life of Klopstock presents a scene of connubial felicity that seems more like a dream of romance than sober reality. Accounts of it have been published in many tongues, and have added much to the high esteem in which he ever has been held as a Christian and a man. She speaks of the union in her girlish way, in a letter, written not long before her decease: "We married, and I am the happiest wife in the world."

The last cantos of the Messiah owe much of their peculiar beauty to the inspiration that Meta afforded the charming poet. In a letter dated Hamburgh, May 6, 1758, she thus pictures the halcyon days of their literary life:

"It will be a delightful occupation for me, to make you more acquainted with my husband's poem. Nobody can do it better than I, being the person that knows the most of that which is not yet published; being always present at the birth of the young verses, which begin always by fragments here and there, of a subject of which his soul is just then filled. He has many great fragments of the whole work ready. You may think that persons who love as we do have no need of two apartments; we are always in the same. I with my little work, stillstill-only regarding sometimes my husband's sweet face, which is so venerable at that time! with tears of devotion, and all the sublimity of the subject, my husband reading me his young verses and suffering my criticisms. Ten books are published, which I think probably the middle of the whole.".

In the autumn of 1758, she was about to become a

mother. Her joy in prospect of the event is expressed in many delightful and exquisitely delicate passages in her correspondence. The union of the wedded pair never had been so spiritual and sympathetic as in these serene autumn days. Each lived for the happiness of the other, and both dwelt in the perpetual sunlight of God.

But the light of Paradise was glimmering amid the sunbeams of these happy days. Meta Klopstock was treading the borders of the unseen world. After the birth of her child, her health sunk rapidly, and it became evident that her life was drawing to a close.

Her death scene is one of the most beautiful in biography, and, perhaps, no one has touched upon it more tenderly than the great poet himself. He thus describes one of their last affecting interviews: "I came in just as she had been bled. A light having been brought near, I saw her face clearly for the first time after many hours. Ah, my Cramer, the hue of death was on it. But that God who was so mightily with her supported me too at the sight. I said, 'I will fulfil my promise, my Meta, and tell you that your life, from extreme weakness, is in dan ger.' I pronounced over her the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Now the will of Him who inexpressibly supports thee, his will be done!' 'Let him do according to his will,' said she; 'He will do well.' She said this is a most sweet, expressive tone of joy and confidence. 'You have endured like an angel; God has been with you; he will be with you. His mighty name be praise. The Most Merciful will support you.' 'Be my guardian angel, if our God permit.' 'Who would not be

so?' said she. At parting she said to me very sweetly, Thou wilt follow me.'

Shortly after her release, I wished to see what I had just before called my Meta. They prevented me. I said to one of our friends, 'Then I will forbear. She will rise again."

The great poet yielded to no weak repinings in these altered days. Heaven to him brightened with new attractions, and his soul was filled with ineffable delight in his religious contemplations and devotions. Of one of these seasons of spiritual elevation he writes:

"The second night came the blessing of her death. Till then I had looked upon it only as a trial. The blessing of such a death in its full power came on me. I passed above an hour in silent rapture. The highest degree of peace with which I am acquainted was in my soul.

"It is impossible to describe all the blessings of that hour. I was never before with such certainty convinced of my salvation."

Happy soul! Of himself he could say in the hour of his desolation, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," and of Meta, "She will rise again."

THOU SHALT RISE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.

THOU shalt rise! my dust, thou shalt arise!
Not always closed thine eyes:

Thy life's first Giver

Will give thee life for ever,

Ah! praise his name!

Sown in darkness, but to bloom again.
When, after winter's reign,

Jesus is reaping

The seed now quietly sleeping.
Ah! praise his name!

Day of praise! for thee thou wondrous day,
In my quiet grave I stay;

The

has been often quoted, and the hymn to which these lines are the refrain has come into general use. hymn as printed in the hymn-books is but a fragment of a long poem. It has a beautiful origin and an interesting history.

Samuel Rutherford was a Scotch divine at Anworth,