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The blessed Saviour once laid low,

No more shall death or sorrow know.
Those Sabbath bells, they cheer the faint,
Revive the faith of drooping saint;
In heaven no mournful cypress waves;
There are no tears, no death, no graves.
Sweet Sabbath bells, ring on, ring on,

Cheer other hearts, when we are gone;
Still sing of hope to those that mourn,
And bid the wandering ones return.
Sweet Sabbath bells ring on, and say,
The Saviour conquered death to-day;
And where He reigns, we all may dwell,
When hushed shall be the Sabbath bell."

THOMAS JOBLING, Jun.

THE ROYAL MINISTER.

The

A KING of England, of precious memory, agreeably to the custom of his time, was in the habit of taking an occasional exercise in hunting. Being out one day with his attendants, when at some distance from home the king's horse manifesting signs of fatigue, he resolved to yield the pleasures of the chase to those of compassion for his beast. As he rode leisurely along by himself, he heard a cry of distress; proceeding a few yards he heard it more distinctly. “Oh, my mother! my mother! God pity and bless my poor mother!' He hastened to the spot, where he saw a little girl, about eight years old, on her knees in prayer, while the gushing tears ran down her cheeks. Affected with the sight, he inquired, "What, my child, is the cause of your weeping! for what do you pray?" little girl started, then rose from her knees, and pointing toward a kind of tent close by, said, "Oh! sir, my dying mother!" 66 'What," said the king, dismounting and fastening his horse to a tree, What, my child? tell me all about it." She now led him to the tent; there lay a middle-aged female in the last stage of decline. She turned her dying eyes towards the royal visitor as he entered, then looked up to heaven, but not a word could she utter; the organs of speech had ceased their office. The little girl again wept aloud. then stooping, wiped the death sweat from her mother's brow. At this moment another girl arrived from town with some medicine for her dying parent. Observing a stranger, she modestly courtesied, kneeled down by her side, kissed her pallid lips, and burst into

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tears. "What, my dear child," said his majesty, "can be done for you?" 'Oh, sir," she replied, "our poor mother wanted some religious person to teach her, and to pray with her before she died. I ran all the way to town this morning before it was light, and asked for a minister, but could get none to come." The dying woman seemed sensible of what her daughter was saying, and her countenance was much agitated. The air was rent with the cries of the distracted children. The king full of kindness, instantly said, "I am a minister, and God has sent me to instruct and comfort your dying mother." Then seating himself by the pallet of straw, he took the hand of the dying woman in his, discoursed to her on the demerit of sin, the nature of redemption, and pointed her to Christ, the all-sufficient Saviour; she seemed to gather consolation and hope as he proceeded! She looked up, she smiled, but it was her last smile; for, ere the expression of joy and peace had passed from her countenance, they discovered that her struggling spirit had left mortality. The king arose, spoke words of comfort to the afflicted orphans, promised them his protection, and putting some gold into their hands, bade them look to heaven; then turning to leave as he brushed away his tears, he saw his attendants, who, missing him in the chase, had returned to witness with silent admiration and subdued hearts, the noble condescension of their king.

Dear reader, scarcely need I point out the lesson this simple and touching narrative is calculated to teach. While you pity the poor woman and her children, you cannot fail to admire the kindness of the monarch. And kindness while it shines in a monarch's character more brilliantly than the gems sparkle in his crown, may be practised by all; therefore cultivate it in yourself, and practise that you so ardently admire in others.

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Act kindly, not merely on special occasions, when kindness is called for, but in every day-life; and while you behave courteously to your friends, speak gently to the beggar who asks charity at your door, for the wise man says, that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he;" and the sweet singer of Israel declares" Blessed is he that considereth the poor; the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble." Psalm xli. 1. J. C. ANTLIFF.

WE ALL WERE CHILDREN ONCE. "WE all were children once" is an almost every-day saying. The man in the midst of business, and the hoary-headed

sire of seventy, make use of this same expression; yet, how few (comparatively speaking) discover its vast meaning, its great suggestiveness! It is true that our most highly learned men, the best of our preachers, and the most useful of society, were children once. Those who are so wise and well educated now, at one period in their history did not know their alphabet; they were first taught their letters, then how to spell words, then to read; thus they improved, until they became what we now see them, men of high standing, admired for their attainments, sought for to give information on the most important subjectsornaments to their country-beloved by the people-and useful to the world; such live to be a blessing, and die with the assurance that they leave the world better than they found it. Our preachers who speak so much about Jesus-our missionaries, who have heard the groans of nations far over the sea-nations in the deepest gloom of heathen night, loving and worshipping cold gods of stonenations who dared men to remove the dark veil from their minds and save them from their misery-nations who subjected their benefactors, their friends to trials "of mockings and scourgings, of bonds and imprisonment; in the face of all this, these men of God took their lives in their hands, and bade farewell to happy homes for the hardships and toils of the missionary life; and all these good men were children once. And so were Paul, and John, and Peter,- and so were hundreds of those who are now before the throne of God above.

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But there is one thought which makes me weep, and that is, all wicked men were once little children. The coldblooded murderer--the hard-hearted slave driver-the midnight robber-the Sabbath-breaker-the swearer-and all bad men were children once. You say, "What a pity they should have lived to become men, that heaven's bright sun should shine upon them, that they should have health and strength to commit such vile deeds and wicked acts-that they should make God's beautiful earth more like a den than a palace-a desert than a fruitful field--a habitation of dragons than a garden of paradise; is it not a wonder that the earth does not open her jaws and swallow them, or the sea drown them, or that a curtain is not drawn across the bright windows of heaven to shut them out from the light of God; a wonder of wonders that all their springs of comfort and fountains of joy are not dried up." Truly God is good, therefore they are not consumed. You say, "if they were children once, how became they wicked men?" I will tell you ;-it was through sinful dispositions

month, and we feel it to be a responsible matter, but we desire to enlist your co-operation in endeavouring to gain access to a still larger circle of readers. Will you ask your young friends to become subscribers for the JUVENILE of 1864, and tell them we will do our best to let them have sixpennyworth a month for their penny? We want to issue 50,000 JUVENILES next month, and to have to print the same number for each month of the year. If our young friends, and others, will help us, it can be done. We thank all our friends for their kind assistance, and now wish them all, in the best sense of the words, "A Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year!"

London, December 1st, 1863.

EDITOR.

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