This execution had lasted four hours. It was on the 1st of July, 1523, that the first martyrs of the Reformation laid down their lives for the Gospel. All good men shuddered when they heard of these events. with fearful anticipations.

"The executions have begun," said Erasmus.

The future was big

"At length," exclaimed Luther, "Christ is gathering some fruits of our preaching, and preparing new martyrs."

But the joy of Luther in the constancy of these young Christians was disturbed by the thoughts of Lambert. Of the three, Lambert possessed most learning; he had been chosen to fill the place of Probst, as preacher at Antwerp. Finding no peace in his dungeon, he was terrified at the prospect of death; but still more by conscience, which reproached him with his cowardice, and urged him to confess the Gospel. Delivered ere long, from his fears, he boldly proclaimed the truth, and died like his brethren.

A noble harvest sprung up from the blood of these martyrs. Brussels manifested a willingness to receive the Gospel.

"Wherever Aleander lights a pile," remarked Erasmus, "there it seems as if he had sown heretics."

“I am bound with you in your bonds," exclaimed Luther; "your dungeons and your burnings my soul takes part in. All of us are with you in spirit; and the Lord is above it all!"

He proceeded to compose a hymn commemorative of the death of the young monks;

and soon, in every direction, throughout Germany and the Low Countries, in towns

and in villages, were heard accents of song which communicated an enthusiasm for the faith of the martyrs.

MARY'S OFFERING.

BY MRS. WILSON.

"And she began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and pressed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment."-Luke vii, 33.

THE board was laid within the pompous hall

Of the proud Pharisee, and mingled notes
Of busy maidens throng'd the list'ning ear,
As if preparing for a regal feast;

And well they might-for Jesus was the guest!
And doubtless, princely forms were gath'ring there,
To swell the host's proud train, as with bar'd brow
He stood, with ostentatious pomp, to hail
The coming of the holy Nazarene !

In that proud circle, oft the kindling glance
Of eager eyes was bent upon The Guest;
And strains of Jewish eloquence pour'd forth
To wake those notes of rich, unearthly tone,
Whose gushing melody had charm'd the wind,
And bade its fierce and howling blast be calm
As the low murmur of an infant's sigh.

But the proud Pharisee-the pompous feast-
The flashing glance-the eloquent harangue-
Charm'd not the eye, nor caught the list'ning ear
Of Israel's holy One-like the vail'd orbs,
And trembling tones, and lowly attitude
Of her that meek intruder, who had gained
The goal her chasten'd heart had long'd for, e'en
A resting place at Jesus' hallow'd feet.

She was a "sinner"-here we will not pause
And trace the long discussions of the learn'd,
To prove the inspired penman meant to give
Some other import to that little word,
Save that with which its literal sound is fraught
To modern ears-for well we know its claim
On the compassion of the "sinner's Friend!"
She was a sinner-and the lordly host,

Deem'd the prophetic vision of his guest

Should pierce "the curtain of the shrouded past,"
And shrink from her contaminating touch;
Not knowing that for such, He came to die!

She was a sinner-yet she calmly stood,
And met the scornful gaze of many an eye

Bent on her in derision; for the high
Resolve to sin no more, had strung her mind
With energy unwonted, thus to brave

The heartless scorn from that proud circle flung,
That she might feel the voice of Jesus pour

Its melody upon her wounded heart,
Breathing the balm of peace and pardon there.
She was a sinner-but the gorgeous robes,

MARY'S OFFERING.

That erst had deck'd her form, were now displac'd,
And the plain folds that mantled o'er her breast,
Told by their wave-like heavings, of the pangs
Which usher in the "second birth!"

The full

Luxuriance of her golden hair, unbound
By jewel'd circlet, floated in rich waves
Around her-and the beam of her dark eye,
Erewhile enkindled by the transient ray

Of worldly pleasure, flash'd its chasten'd glance
Through soft'ning show'rs of penitential tears!-
Then, in her hand she held (perchance it was
The proceeds of the costly gems which deck'd
Those lately jewel'd fingers) a small box,
Whose precious contents, as she pour'd them on
The sacred head of Jesus, fill'd the hall
With such sweet perfume as the zephyr's wing
Brings from Arabia's spicy vales! This rich
And costly off'ring made-lowly she fell
At Jesus' hallow'd feet-bath'd them with tears,
And dried their moisten'd surface with the long,
Soft, radiant tresses she was wont to braid
With woman's care, around her polish'd brow!

Which was the welcome off"ring? Which obtain'd
The kind regard of Jesus? That, which shed
Its costly sweetness on the perfum'd air?
Or that, which, flowing from the hidden fount
Of deep contrition, pour'd its gushing tide
Of chasten'd feeling at the Savior's feet?

I tell ye, tears of penitence, are drops
Of holy dew, exhal'd by Bethlehem's Star!
Borne by rejoicing angels to the throne,
They form the brightest gems that stud the crown
Circling the Savior's brow! And Mary's tears,
Tho' of small value in the worldling's eye,
Were the oblation, which, by Jesus own'd,
Wak'd the sweet notes of pardon, which then fell
Like Gilead's balm upon her wounded soul,
And bade the trembling mourner, "Go in peace!"

23

MURMUR at nothing; if our ills are reparable, it is ungrateful; if remediless, it is vain. But a Christian builds his fortitude on a better foundation than Stoicism; he is pleased with every thing that happens, because he knows it could not happen unless it had first pleased God, and that which pleases him must be the best. He is assured that no new thing can befall him, and that he is in the hands of a father who will prove him with no affliction that resignation cannot conquer, or that death cannot cure.

AFTER praying to God not to lead you into temptation, do not throw yourself into it.

The Soft Summer Rain.

WORDS BY M. E. LEE.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR THE LADY'S PEARL, BY J. N. METCALF.

1. From hill and from valley I hear a glad strain,And down the green

brightly?'Tis the soft summer rain, 'Tis the soft sum-mer