Better yield every thing-gold, silver and precious stones the best jewelled of all the cups from which kings have drank, for in none of them is such a pearl dissolved as in the Gospel pitcher unbroken at the fountain. Not long since I was called to visit a sick woman who related to me a dream of being admitted to Heaven. Wearied and well-nigh ready to faint from excitement at the novelties she beheld, a cup was passed into her hand from some invisible source, and she instantly drank of it. It tasted of every thing that had ever delighted her, and completely satisfied every desire-every wish suggested by remembered draughts of things good. And when we leave the worldpass into the heaven of thoughtfulness and devotion, how invisibly comes to us the cup of salvation, and we drink to the satisfaction of our whole being. To lose this to have this medium of celestial life broken, might well induce one to go in mourning through life. Such do go in mourning. Thought is clothingout of its loom is woven dark weeds. You see this truth where the late gay and lively maiden comes into view, having changed the garments of praise for the spirit of heaviness, because of the pitcher broken at the fountain. She is succeeded by one whose urn is speedily filled, and she cheerfully answers the wish, "Give me, I pray thee, to drink;" and as the soul partakes of the cool waters, it feels that God hath indeed made its journey prosperous.

Here then is the thought to be cherished; value the body for it brings the soul into communion with us. Do not deal with it rashly. Shun the sport that is destructive, and help its purity in all ways possible. When it is broken by the stroke of Death, still think of the water of the fountain the soul's immeasurable depths, and trust that a far less frail vessel shall bring to them of the fulness of those depths in the realms of the Immortals, where no pitcher is broken at the fountain.

Think too of the child, Urn of God to bring thee refreshment. Guard it. Do not let it be exposed to the world, lest its hand be empty, when thou would 'st have a draught from a better than the well of Bethlehem.

And set thine heart upon the Jewelled Cup of God, Urn of Creating Love, and value the Bible as the gift that can satisfy, when all the wells of the world have nothing to meet the great want. Pity in thine inmost soul the poor pilgrim who has no faith in the richness and value of that gift of the Great Father, for all life's disasters cannot present one greater than where, in this sense, the pitcher is broken at the fountain. Help him to that miracleworking faith that shall gather the scattered fragments and restore their wholeness, as Milton represents the great work of Christians to be in reference to the lovely form of Truth, scattered abroad in a a thousand pieces.

MADAME ROLAND'S REQUIEM.

BY HELEN RICH.

How mournfully and sadly through the prison walls it

swept,

And all who caught its wailing tones bowed down and wildly wept,

The silvered locks of age, and youth with ringlets fair, And still the angel Minstrel flung rich music on the air.

O beautiful and graceful was she, that lady young; And the white hand, did it tremble, the golden chords among?

And did that dark eye in its flashings give out a shade of fear?

Or was that pale and lovely cheek bedewed with sorrow's tear?

Ah, no, the majesty of thought that rested on her brow, Was all too bright and glorious, for aught of earthly

woe,

And the smile that lingered on the lips, while the rosy hue had fled,

Was radiant as sunlight on the pure and gifted dead.

Yet still, the low soft warnings of her requiem stole by, As the last sweet zephyr Summer breathes, when all her flowers die,

Till like a holy echo caught from her own spirit home, Trembling in tender sadness, sank her harp's last thrilling tone.

She will go forth to-morrow with a step all light and free

Her white robe, it is not as fair as her bosom's purity! And the winds of sunny France will kiss her glossy raven hair,

And o'er her eyes, made bright with soul, will pass no shade of care.

For she had been the poor one's friend, and ever on her tongue,

Like manna to the perishing, the words of kindness

hung

The fountains of sweet human love, her soul could bid

to flow

Wherever cruelty had swept in waves of bitter wo.

And the priceless wealth of intellect which God to her had given,

Had it not ever been to man a messenger of Heaven? Had she not kept that gem undimmed, by aught of

earthly stain,

Until in death, with blessings, she restore it him again.

And though that morrow's sun will set in darkness and in blood,

And naught save memory of her life will linger where she stood,

Yet she shall triumph over death, and her name shall ever be

A watch-word to the merciful, the gifted and the free.

Her blood shall call destruction from the Heaven that saw her die,

On the fiends that crushed the fairest flowers beneath the azure sky;

O never woman gave to earth a life and death like

hers,

And never woman had such fond and faithful worshippers!

Farewell, immortal one, thou art a sign of Heaven to

me,

And when this hand is cold in death my soul can gaze

on thee;

Thy orphan child is with thee now, and, in the heavenly clime

Thy husband, who would live no more in a world so stained with crime.

Richville, N. Y., Dec. 25th, 1850.

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