And with a woman's devotion she laid her fond heart

At the shrine of idolatrous love;

And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth,

By the chain which her tenderness wove.

But I saw, when those heartstrings were bleeding and torn, And the chain had been severed in two,

She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief,
And her bloom for the paleness of woe!

But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart,
And wiping the tears from her eyes;

And He strengthened the chain He had broken in twain,
And fastened it firm to the skies!

There had whispered a voice,-'twas the voice of her God: "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!”

2. I saw the young mother in tenderness bend O'er the couch of her slumbering boy;

And she kissed the soft lips as they murmured her name,
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.

Oh, sweet as the rose-bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,

So fresh and so bright to that mother he seemed,

As he lay in his innocence there.

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,

Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,

But paler and colder her beautiful boy,
And the tale of her sorrow was told!

But the Healer was there, who had stricken her heart,
And taken her treasure away;

To allure her to heaven, He has placed it on high,

And the mourner will sweetly obey.

There had whispered a voice,-'twas the voice of her God: "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!"

3. I saw, too, a father and mother who leaned
On the arms of a dear gifted son;

And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won;
And the fast coming evening of life promised fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,
And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave,
Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid;
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the Healer was there, and His arms were around,
And He led them with tenderest care;

And He showed them a star in the bright upper world, 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!

They had each heard a voice,-'twas the voice of their God: "I love thee—I love thee-pass under the rod!"

QUESTIONS.-1. What custom is alluded to, in the passage "I will cause you to pass under the rod ?" See note. 2. Where is that passage found in the Scriptures? Ans. Ezekiel, 20th chap. 37th verse. mentioned of individuals "passing under the rod?”

3. What instances are

LESSON CXV.

PET'U LANT, Cross; fretful.

CA LAM' I TY, misfortune.

AP PEL LA'TION, name; title.
VE HE MENT, violent; furious.

SA TIR' IC AL, keenly severe; cutting. VO CIF ER A'TION$, loud outcries.

NUISANCE, annoyance.

JUST' I FY, give a right to.
STU PID' I TY, extreme dullness.
CUL' PA BLE, blamable; censurable.
IR RI TA BIL' I TY, excitableness.

MEN' A CE$, threats.

CEN'SUR ED, blamed.
VIN DI CA'TION, justification.
LON GEV'I TY, length of life.
CON TEMPT' I BLE, despicable.

THE PETULANT MAN.

MR. GRIM-MICHAEL-COUSIN MARY.

OSBORNE.

Cousin Mary More breezes? What terrible thing has happened now, Cousin Grim? What's the matter?

Grim. Matter enough, I should think! I sent this stupid fellow to bring me a pair of boots from the closet; and he has brought me two rights, instead of a right and left.

Cousin. What a serious calamity! But, perhaps, he thought it was but right to leave the left.

Grim. None of your jokes, if you please. This is nothing to laugh at.

Cousin. So it would seem, from the expression on your face, rather something to storm at, roar at, and fall into a frenzy about.

Michael. That's right, Miss; give him a piece of your mind! He's the crossest little man I have met with in the new country. You might scrape old Ireland with a finetooth comb, and not find such another.

Grim. How dare you talk to me in that style? I'll discharge you this very day!

Michael. I'm thinking of discharging you, if you don't take better care of that sweet temper of yours.

Grim. Leave the room, sir!

the lady's presence.

Michael. That I will, in search of better company, saving [Exit. Grim. There, cousin! there is a specimen of my provocations! Can you wonder at my losing my temper?

Cousin. Cousin Grim, that would be the most fortunate thing that could befall you.

Grim. What do you mean?

Cousin. I mean, if you could only lose that temper of yours, it would be a blessed thing for you; though I should pity the poor fellow who found it.

Grim. You are growing satirical in your old age, Cousin Mary.

Cousin. Cousin Grim, hear the plain truth: your ill temper makes you a nuisance to yourself and every body about you.

Grim. Really, Miss Mary Somerville, you are getting to be complimentary!

Cousin. No; I am getting to be candid. I have passed a week in your house, on your invitation. I leave you this afternoon; but, before I go, I mean to speak my mind.

Grim. It seems to me that you have spoken it rather freely already.

Cousin. What was there, in the circumstance of poor Michael's bringing you the wrong boots, to justify your flying into a rage, and bellowing as if your life had been threatened?

Grim. That fellow is perpetually making just such provoking blunders !

Cousin. And do you never make provoking blunders'? Didn't you send me five pounds of Hyson tea, when I wrote for Souchong'? Didn't you send a carriage for mo to the cars, half an hour too late, so that I had to hire one myself, after great trouble'? And did I roar at you, when we met, because you had done these things'?

Grim. On the contrary, this is the first time you have alluded to them. I am sorry they should have happened. But surely you should make a distinction between any such little oversight of mine, and the stupidity of a servant, hired to attend to your orders.

Cousin. I do not admit that there should be a distinction. You are both human; only, as you have had the better education, and the greater advantages, stupidity or neglect on your part, is much the more culpable.

Grim. Thank you! Go on.

Cousin. I mean to; so don't be impatient. If an uncooked potato, or a burnt mutton-chop, happens to fall to your lot at the dinner-table, what a tempest follows! One would think you had been wronged, insulted, trampled on, driven to despair. Your face is like a thunder-cloud, all the rest of the meal. Your poor wife endeavors to hide her tears. Your children feel timid and miserable. Your guest feels as if she would like to see you held under the nose of the pump, and thoroughly ducked.

Grim. The carriage is waiting for you, Miss Somerville, and the driver has put on your baggage.

Cousin. I have hired that carriage by the hour, and so am in no hurry. Your excuse for your irritability will be, I suppose, that it is constitutional, and not to be controlled. A selfish, paltry, miserable excuse! I have turned down a leaf in Dr. Johnson's works, and will read what he says in regard to tempers like yours.

Grim. You are always quoting Dr. Johnson! Cousin, I can not endure it! Dr. Johnson is a bore!

Cousin. Oh, yes! to evil-doers,-but to none else. Hear him: "There is in the world a class of mortals known, and contentedly known, by the appellation of passionate men, who imagine themselves entitled, by this distinction, to be provoked on every slight occasion, and to vent their rage in vehement and fierce vociferations, in furious menaces, and licentious reproaches."

Grim. That will do.

Cousin. "Men of this kind," he tells us, "are often pitied rather than censured, and are not treated with the severity which their neglect of the ease of all about them, might justly provoke." But he adds: "It is surely not to be observed without indignation, that men may be found of minds