prayer. We then committed the dust to its kindred dust, there to await the archangel's trumpet.

LESSON LXVIII.

The Burial Anthem.-MILMAN.

A few months after the death of Parsons, Messrs. Fisk, King, and other missionaries, visited his grave, and sang around it the following hymn :

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,

And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.

From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode :
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail;

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,

Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,”
The solemn priest hath said;

So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:

But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

LESSON LXIX.

Approach to Constantinople.-WILLIAM GOODELL.

As we approached Constantinople, the most enchanting prospect opened to view. In the country on our left were fields rich in cultivation and fruitfulness. On our right were the little isles of this sea; and beyond, the high lands of Broosa, with Olympus, rearing its head above the clouds, and covered with eternal snow.

In the city, mosques, domes, and hundreds of lofty minarets were starting up amidst the more humble abodes of men, all embosomed in groves of dark cypresses, which, in some instances, seemed almost like a forest; while before, behind and around us were' (besides many boats of the country) more than twenty square-rigged vessels, bearing the flags of different nations, all under full sail, with a light but favorable breeze-all converging to one point, and that CONSTANTINOPLE. When we first caught

a glimpse of Top-Hana, Galata and Pera, stretching from the water's edge to the summit of the hill, and began to sweep round Seraglio Point, the view became most beautiful and sublime. It greatly surpassed all that I had ever conceived of it.

We had been sailing along what I should call the south side of the city, for four or five miles, and were now entering the Bosphorus, with the city on our left, and Scutari on our right. The mosques of St. Sophia and of sultan Achmed, or Selim (for I have not ascertained which), with the palaces and gardens of the present sultan, Mahmoud, were before us in all their majesty and loveliness. Numerous boats were shooting rapidly by us in all directions, giving to the scene the appearance of life, activity, pleasure and business.

The vessels before us had been retarded, and those behind had been speeded, and we were sweeping round

the Golden Horn in almost as rapid succession as was possible every captain apparently using all his skill to prevent coming in contact with his neighbor, or being carried away by the current; and every passenger apparently, like ourselves, gazing with admiration on the numerous objects of wonder on every hard.

LESSON LXX.

The College Student.-J. ABBOTT.

A BOY of about twelve or fourteen years of age, a member of an academy in which he was pursuing his studies preparatory to his admission to college, sees the duty of commencing a religious life. He walks some evening at sunset, alone, over the green fields which surround the village in which he resides, and the stillness and beauty of the scene around him bring him to a serious and thoughtful frame of mind.

God is speaking to him in the features of beauty and of splendor in which the face of nature is decked. The glorious western sky reminds him of the hand which spread its glowing colors. He looks into the dark grove, in the edge of which he is walking, and its expression of deep, unbroken solitude brings a feeling of calm solemnity over his soul.

The declining sun,-the last faint whispers of the dying evening breeze, the solitary and mournful note which comes to him from a lofty branch of some tall tree in the depth of the forest, these, and the thousand other circumstances of such a scene, speak to him, most distinctly, of the flight of time, and of the approach of that evening when the sun of his life is to decline, and this world cease forever to be his home.

As he muses in this scene, he feels the necessity of a preparation for death, and, as he walks slowly homeward, he is almost determined to come at once to the conclusion to commence immediately a life of piety. He reflects, however, upon the unpleasant publicity of such a change. He has many irreligious friends whom it is hard to relin

quish, and he shrinks from forming new acquaintances in a place he is so soon to leave.

He reflects that he is soon to be transferred to college, and that there he can begin anew. He resolves that when he enters college walls, he will enter a Christian; that he will, from the first, be known as one determined to do his duty towards God. He will form no irreligious friendships, and then he will have none to sunder. He will fall into no irreligious practices, and then he will have none to abandon.

He thinks he can thus avoid the awkwardness of a public change. He is ungenerous enough to wish to steal thus secretly into the kingdom of heaven, without humbling any of his pride by an open admission that he has been wrong. He waits for a more convenient season.

When he finds himself on college-ground, however, his heart does not turn any more easily to his duties towards God. First, there is the feverish interest of the examination, then the novelty of the public recitation-room,-the untried, unknown instructer,-the new room-mate,—and all the multiplied and varied excitements which are always to be found in college walls.

There are new acquaintances to form, new countenances to speculate upon, and new characters to study; and in these, and similar objects of occupation and interest, week after week glides rapidly away. At last, one Saturday evening, the last of the term, he is walking over the college grounds, and among the other serious reflections that come upon his mind, there are the following:

"One whole term has now passed, and what have become of my resolutions to return to God? How swiftly the weeks have glided away! and I have been going farther and farther from God and from duty. I find that I cannot, in college any more than in any other place, become a Christian without effort and self-denial.

"I must come boldly to the duty of giving up my heart to God, and commencing, publicly, a Christian life; and, whenever I do this, it must be hard at first. I will attend to the subject this vacation. I shall be quiet and retired at home, and shall have a favorable opportunity there to attend to my duty, and make my peace with God. I will come back to college, next term, a new man."

Such are his reflections. Instead of resolving to do his

duty now, he looks forward again, notwithstanding his former disappointment, to another more convenient season. The bustle of the closing term, and the plans and preparations for the approaching vacation, soon engross his mind, and, instead of coming to his Maker at once, and going home a Christian, he puts it off in hopes to return one. Vain hope! He will undoubtedly come back as he goes, procrastinating duty.

Term after term, and vacation after vacation, pass away, and the work of preparing for another world is still postponed and neglected. The longer it is postponed, the worse it is; for he is becoming more and more known as an irreligious young man, and becomes more and more intimately connected with those whose influence is all against religion.

He soon quiets conscience with the reflection that, while he is in the lower classes, he is much more under the control of public opinion; others, older and more advanced than he, take the lead in forming the sentiments of the community, and it is harder for him to act independently now, on a subject which affects his standing in the estimation of his companions, than it will be when he shall have passed on to a higher class, and shall have influence in forming a public sentiment, to act upon others, instead of having others form it for him.

The closing months of college life at last come on, bringing with them less and less disposition to do his duty. He has become familiarized to the idea of living without God. His long and intimate acquaintance with irreligious companions has bound him to them by ties which he is not willing to sunder.

Not ties of affection; for there is seldom much confidence or love in such a case. They are ties of mere acquaintance,-mere community of sentiment and action: he dreads to break away from what gives him little pleasure, and is thus bound by a mysterious and unreasonable, but almost hopeless, slavery.

He leaves college either utterly confirmed in insensibility to religious truth, or else, when he occasionally thinks of the subject, faintly hoping that, in the bustle of life, some more convenient season may occur, which he may seize as a time for making his peace with God.