Turn thee from the lowly sod,

Lift thy heart and "trust in God."

When thy strength and spirit fail,
And thy day of life is waning,

Fear not thou the gloomy vale,
On thy Saviour ever leaning;

Shrink not where his feet have trod,
Lift thy heart and "trust in God."

CHELSEA, MASS.

THE CHERUB'S FALL.

BY REV. D. D. WHEDON, D. D.

THE demarcation line between right and wrong is eternal in its nature, and divides the two hemispheres of the moral universe asunder. God himself did not create that line ; for when he traced it, with his finger, on the human conscience, he but transcribed it from the map of his own moral government. The opposition between the two sides of that line is perfect and absolute. East and west, height and depth, black and white, darkness and light, are opposites; but their opposition is tame identity, compared to contrariety between right and wrong. Hence there is no small sin; for the least crime is a direful passing over the great equinoctial of eternity.

One sunny hour in heaven there sprang from the fountain of life, a fresh, young cherub, with an eye brighter than the purest star, a face ruddier than the blush of morning, and a wing more radiant than the folds of the Aurora. There were angels whose pinions could sweep a broader circle, and whose brow had a loftier majesty, but none whose look was more beaming with innocence, or whose love had so sweet and tiny a strain.

Ages, passed away; and that cherub was young and sweet as the hour it leapt from the spring of immortality. And now it felt a vivid impulse in its wing to range the fields of boundless space. Far-farther than glass could reach, or fancy measure, did that cherub rove, when lo! he came to the bounding mark, which limited the territory of holy The cherub paused. One tiny foot overstepped

Right. the line! O cherub! cherub! It was a fatal step! would that with a myriad of chrystal worlds that spangle yon belt of galaxy thou couldst retrieve it. But no price, no value can purchase back thy primal innocence again. For see! his face shrivels, his wing grows bristly with spears, his eye sparkles with a demoniac fire, his form darkens the cherub is a devil! an eternal devil. - There was no REDEEMER there!

TENNYSON'S PRINCESS.

BY REV. DANIEL WISE, A. M.

THE poems of Alfred Tennyson are so versatile and beautiful, so full of pathos and sweetness, that they cannot fail to charm the ear and stir the soul of every lover of good poetry. His "Godiva," "The Lord of Burleigh," and

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Monte de Arthur," will be popular with those whose taste allures them to ramble among the mysteries of romantic poetry. Those who are most pleased with the simplicity and lovingness of the social affections, delineated in chaste and beautiful verse, will feast on the poetic charms of the "May Queen," "Dora," and the "Miller's Daughter." The admirers of oriental imagery will roam with exquisite gratification among his "Recollections of the Arabian Nights;" while in the "Princess," which is appropriately denominated a medley, all varieties of beauty are artistically blended in one harmonious and lovely whole.

The Princess is the largest and best production of Mr. Tennyson's genius; and is, of itself, sufficient to give its amiable author a high rank among the best of British poets. It opens with a prologue of exceeding beauty, in which an old English knight, Sir Walter Vivian by name, appears,

on "his broad lawns," giving a festival to his jovial tenantry. His son is present with a band of gay college companions. To these are shown the antiquities of the ancient hall; until, wearied with gazing on its wonders, they strolled to the ruins of an old Abbey, where they

"lit on aunt Elizabeth,

And Lilia with the rest, and Ralph himself."

Here they held gay and bantering discourse. Young Walter decried the merits of modern ladies; his sister

"Lilia, wild with sport,

Half child, half woman as she was,"

charged the blame of woman's weaknesses on the conventionalities of life, and wished herself a princess, that she might build a college for the education of ladies, apart from men; in which case, she said, they "should see " what woman could be. On this hint, Walter and his six companions agree to relate an impromptu tale, of which each is to furnish his portion in turn. This tale they named "The Princess," and agreed it should be

"A tale for summer, as befits the time.

And something it should be to suit the place;

Grave, moral, solemn, like the mouldering walls
About us."

The poem commences with a relation, by a supposed