ties to the valuable friends, who are always found ready tc minister to our amusement, and participate in our gayety, and equally ready to counsel our sober hours, and assist our emergencies with effectual help.

Let us attend to the instructive voice of Memory. Let us lend a careful ear to the moral of her tales. Let us, like the Psalmist, when we remember the days of old, hallow our reminiscences by meditating on the works of God-by tracing the hand of a merciful Providence through the varied for tunes of our course.

The memory of joy reaches far back in the annals of every one's life. Indeed, there are many who persuade themselves that they never experienced true pleasure, except in the earliest stages of their career; who complain, that when the hours of childhood flew away, they bore off the best joys of life upon their wings, leaving passion to be the minister of youth, and care to be the portion of manhood, and regret and pain to drag old age into the grave.

I cannot sympathize in these gloomy views. I consider them in a high degree unjust to the happiness which God has spread out liberally through every division of our days, and which can be missed or forfeited in hardly any other manner than through our wilful sins. But I do not the less share the visions and participate in the pleasures of those who love to retrace the green paths of their early years, and refresh their hearts with the retrospect of guileless innocence, of sunbright hopes, of delights that the merest trifle could. purchase, and of tears that any kind hand could wipe away.

How many scenes exist in the remembrance of each one of us, soft, and dim, and sacred, beyond the painter's art to copy, but hung up, as in an ancient gallery, for the visits and contemplation of our maturer minds. Mellowed they are, and graced, like other pictures, by the slow and tasteful hand of time.

The groves, through which we ran as free as our playmate the wind, wave with a more graceful foliage, and throw a purer shade; the ways which our young feet trod have lost

their ruggedness, and are bordered every where with flowers; and no architecture that we have since seen, though we may have wandered through kings' palaces, can equal the beauty of the doors which our hands first learned to open, and of the apartments which once rang with the echoes of our childish glee.

55. The Same, continued.

THERE was joy in our hearts when we first began to take a part in the serious business of life, and felt that we were qualifying ourselves for a station, perhaps an honorable one, among our seniors. We were joyful when we won the prize of exertion, or received the praise and the smiles of those whose praise and smiles were worth to us more than any other reward. Joy was our companion when we first went out a little way upon the broad face of the earth, and saw how fair and grand she was, covered with noble cities, and artful monuments, and various productions, and the busy tribes of men. Joy came with friendship, and affection, and confidence, and the pure interchange of hearts and thoughts.

And more than this, we were joyful when we were virtuous and useful; when we strove against a besetting temptation, and knew that our spirit was strong to subdue it; when we came out boldly, and denounced injustice, and defended the right; when we gave up a selfish gratification, and received at blessing; when we forbore to speak ill of a rival, though by so doing we might have advanced our own claims; when we dismissed envy from our bosoms, and made it give place to a generous admiration; when we forgave an enemy, and prayed from our hearts that God might forgive him too; when we stretched out a willing hand to heal, to help, to guide, to protect, to save; in short, whenever we discharged an obligation and performed a duty, and earned the approbation of conscience.

Let me not omit, in the enumeration of joys, the memory of our religious experiences and improvements. Let me not be so dull and cold-hearted, as to pass by the hours which were consecrated to a close and filial communion with our Father in heaven; the hours when we felt the burden of mortality taken off, and our souls left light and free; when we breathed a better atmosphere, and saw with a clearer vision, because the air of another world was around us, and the clouds of doubt had vanished away.

There have been seasons, in the life of every Christian, when he has perceived that a fresh beam of divine light has come in upon his soul, that he has acquired a new apprehension of the attributes and providence of God, and that he has taken another step in the path of a holy pilgrimage. Such seasons are sacred, and sacredly let them be kept in the record of every heart.

The recollection of our joys will show us how beneficent our Creator has been to us, in furnishing each age with its appropriate pleasures, and filling our days with a variety, as well as a multitude, of blessings. It will teach us to keep an account of our enjoyments, and to avoid the fault of those who minutely reckon up their pains and misfortunes, but ungratefully pass over the kind allotments of Providence. He who is faithful to the mercies of Heaven will not forget that he has tasted them, even though they may have been long withdrawn. He has once had them for his own, and that is enough to inspire him with gratitude for the past, and with trust in the continuance of his Father's love.

Another moral may be deduced from the remembrance of our joys. It is evident that they are not all of equal value, and that we must dwell on some of them with more complacency and satisfaction than on others. Now, we shall find, if our moral taste is not entirely perverted, that the joys which afford the greatest delight to our memory, are those which flowed in childhood from its innocence, and in after life from ur good deeds.

The lesson is obvious. If we take pleasure in recurring

to the innocence of our first years, let it be our watchful care to retain and preserve it; for it is not necessarily destroyed by knowledge, nor does it invariably depart at the approach of maturity. It is in continual danger, and it must be guarded with constancy. It is like a fountain, which springs up in a frequented place, and is immediately exposed to rude contamination and surrounding impurities; but we may build a temple over it, and keep it fresh and clear.

A similar improvement may be made of the memory of our good deeds. We should use all diligence in adding to their store for if they are now the most precious treasures of the soul, they certainly will not diminish in price, when the common enjoyments of life are losing their relish, and its bustle no longer engages us, and the tide of our energies is fast ebbing away, and we only wait for the summons of departure.

What solace is there to an aged man like the memory of his virtuous actions! What medicine is there so healing to his wasted, solitary heart! What ground of hope is there sc sure to his spirit, next to the mercy of his God, and the intercession of Christ, his Saviour! And what wealth would not many a sinner give, to purchase that which the wealth of both the Indies is too poor to buy! GREENWOOD.

56. Marco Bozzaris.

A midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror :

In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring;

Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on

the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;

He woke - to hear his sentry's shriek,

"To arms! They come! The Greek! the Greek! He woke - to die 'midst flame, and smoke,

And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast,
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

'Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike for your altars and your fires;

Strike for the green graves of

God, and your native land!"

your sires,

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain ;
They conquered - but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein:

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud “hurrah,”

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,

Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals,