les, when upon the eastern coast we sink to happy rest, The Day of Independence rolls still onward to the west, Till dies on the Pacific shore the shout of jubilee,

That woke the morning with its voice along th' Atlantic Sea. ́

O God, look down upon the land which thou hast loved so well,

And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may dwell;

Nor, while the grass grows on the hill and streams flow through the vale,

May they forget their fathers' faith, or in their covenant fail: Keep, God, the fairest, noblest land that lies beneath the

sun;

"Our country, our whole country, and our country ever

one."

GEORGE W. BETHUNE.

TURBID; muddy, foul with extraneous matter. REVERBERATE; to return or send back a sound, to echo. SWALE; a corruption from vale. a local word in New England, signifying a tract of low land. COVENANT; an agreement or contract between parties.

ANALOGY BETWEEN THE DECAY OF NATURE AND OF MAN.

SHADOWS; give o its long sound. ASSUMES; long u. SOBERNESS; er as in her. SENTIMENTS; ĕnts, not unse. KINDRED; drěd, not drid. FIELDS; ldz. GENERAL; er as in her. ELOQUENT; long o. SOLEMN; ěm, not um. SOOTHING; give n its ringing sound.

THERE is an even-tide in the day,- an hour when the sun retires, and the shadows fall, and when nature assumes the appearances of soberness and silence. It is an hour from which every where the thoughtless fly, as peopled only in their imagination with images of gloom; it is the hour, → 297, 312.

té 98, 149.

on the other hand, which, in every age, the wise have loved, as bringing with it sentiments and affections more valuable than all the splendors of the day.

Its first impression is to still all the turbulence of thought or passion which the day may have brought forth. We follow, with our eye, the descending sun; we listen to the decaying sounds of labor and of toil; and when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kindred stillness breathe upon our souls, and calm them from the agitations of society.

From this first impression, there is a second, which naturally follows it. In the day we are living with men: in the even-tide we begin to live with nature; we see the world withdrawn from us, the shades of night darken over the habitations of men, and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour, fitted, as it would seem, by Him who made us, to still, but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly passion, and the ardor of every impure desire, and, while it veils for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in our hearts those legitimate affections which the heat of the day may have dissolved.

There is yet a further scene it presents to us. While the world withdraws from us, and while the shades of the evening darken upon our dwellings, the splendors of the firmament come forward to our view. In the moments when earth is overshadowed, heaven opens to our eyes. the radiance of a sublimer being; our hearts follow the successive splendors of the scene; and while we forget, for a time, the obscurity of earthly concerns, we feel that there are "yet greater things than these," and that we "have a Father who dwelleth in the heavens, and who yet deigneth to consider the things that are upon earth."

--

There is, in the second place, an "even-tide" in the year, a season, as we now witness, when the sun withdraws his propitious light, when the winds arise, and the

leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy; and if, by this word, be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy; yet it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence, that they who have known it feel, instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched, but to fine issues.

It is a season, in the first place, which tends to wean us from the passions of the world. Every passion, however base or unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present enjoyment; it tells us of what men have done and what men may do, and it supports us every where by the example of many around us. When we go out into the fields in the evening of the year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even in spite of ourselves, the still but steady advances of time.

A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power; the desert no more "blossoms like the rose; " the song of joy is no more heard among the branches; and the earth is strewed with that foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. Whatever may

be the passions which society has awakened, we pause amid this apparent desolation of nature. We sit down in the lodge "of the wayfaring man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the emblem of our own fate.

Such also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring, the pride of our summer, will also fade into decay; and the pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious desire, will gradually sink, and then must stop forever. We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a Z 280, 312.

t 168-173

shadowy scene, where we have " disquieted ourselves in vain."

It is the peculiar character of the melancholy which such seasons excite, that it is general. It is not an individual remonstrance; it is not the harsh language of human wisdom, which too often insults while it instructs us. When the winds of autumn sigh around us, their voice speaks not to us only, but to our kind; and the lesson they teach us is not that we alone decay, but that such also is the fate of all the generations of man. They are the green leaves of the tree of the desert, which perish and are renewed."

66

In such a sentiment there is a kind of sublimity mingled with its melancholy our tears fall, but they fall not for ourselves; and, although the train of our thoughts may have begun with the selfishness of our own concerns, we feel that, by the ministry of some mysterious power, they end in awakening our concern for every being that lives.

Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse, humanity will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry of life will pass; the loudest notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the grave; the wicked, wherever active," will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering, "will be at rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animosities, the hatreds which society may have engendered, sink unperceived from our bosoms.

In the general desolation of nature, we feel the littleness of our own passions; we look forward to that kindred evening which time must bring to all; we anticipate the graves of those we hate, as of those we love. Every unkind passion falls, with the leaves that fall around us; and we return slowly to our homes, and to the society which surrounds us, with the wish only to enlighten or to bless them. There is an even-tide in human life, a season when the eye becomes dim, and the strength decays, and when the

winter of age begins to shed upon the human head its prophetic snow. It is the season of life to which the present is most analogous; and much it becomes, and much it would profit you, my elder brethren, to mark the instructions which the season brings.

The spring and the summer of your days are gone, and with them, not only the joys they knew, but many of the friends who gave them. You have entered upon the autumn of your being, and whatever may have been the profusion of your spring, or the warm intemperance of your summer, there is yet a season of stillness and of solitude which the beneficence of Heaven affords you, in which you may meditate upon the past and the future, and prepare yourselves for the mighty change which you are then to undergo.

If it be thus, my elder brethren, you have the wisdom to use the decaying season of nature, it brings with it consolations more valuable than all the enjoyments of former days. In the long retrospect of your journey, you have seen every day the shades of the evening fall, and every year the clouds of winter gather. But you have seen also, every succeeding day, the morning arise in its brightness, and in every succeeding year the spring return to renovate the winter of nature.

:

It is now you may understand the magnificent language of Heaven it mingles its voice with that of revelation; it summons you, in these hours when the leaves fall, and the winter is gathering, to that evening study which the mercy of Heaven has provided in the book of salvation; and, while the shadowy valley opens which leads to the abode of death, it speaks of that hand which can comfort and can save, and which can conduct to those "green pastures, and those still waters" where there is an eternal spring for the children of God.

ALISON.

TURBULENCE; disorder or tumult. LEGITIMATE; accordant with law, genuine, real. PROPITIOUS; favorable. PAGEANTRY; pompous exhibi