be ye? And they said, Of Haran are we. And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor? And they said, We know him. And he said unto them, Is he well? And they said, He is well: and behold Rachel his daughter cometh with the sheep. And he said, Lo, it is high day, neither is it time that the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep, and go and feed them. And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered together, and till they roll the stone from the well's mouth; then we water the sheep. And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her father's sheep: for she kept them. And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter of Laban, his mother's brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother's brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother's brother. And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept. And Jacob told Rachel that he was her father's brother, and that he was Rebekah's son: and she ran and told her father. And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and he brought him to his house. And he told Laban all these things."

How beautiful is his love for Rachel; pure and spotless as anything on earth. The man is under the smile of heaven: he daily increases in wealth, and in a few years becomes a powerful prince. We pass over the interesting and touching records of his life-his wrestling with the angel at Peniel, and refusing to let him go until blessed-his meeting with his brother Esau-his establishment in the land of Canaan-his love of Joseph-all these beautiful records belong to

the East. They are entwined around its dells, and plains, and mountains, and streams. Well may we love the oriental region; well may it kindle all our enthusiasm, and all our hopes; much of its ground is sacred; it teems with hallowed associations; and on its soil the Incarnate trod, preaching "deliverance to the captive, and the opening of prison-doors to those that are bound."

JAMES GRAHAME.

"With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A graver murmur echoes from the hill,

And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove
Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move :
So soft the day when the first morn arose."

LEYDEN.

AFTER perusing the immortal Milton, and beholding the magnificence and sublimity of the celestial worlds pictured to the imagination by his master-spirit; after accompanying Atherstone in his dream of suns and systems replete with life and loveliness; and after sweeping immensity, vast and infinite, with Byron in his "Cain," we are refreshed by the tender lays of Grahame his perception of beauty, and his calm and holy Sabbath scenes; we are once more drawn to earth, and find that it still bears marks of pristine grace, and still has moments of heavenly peace. And, oh, had not sin tainted our very nature, what a land of rest had ours not been!-had iniquity not entered, the intellect would

R

have been pure and lofty, the image of the Invisible ; with angels we should have held communion: the shadowy eventide would have beheld the converse; the twilight star would have looked down upon the fair and hallowed intercourse. But rebellion lifted up its standard; then followed the curse; the mind mouldered, it became a dim, dark ruin; where once the bright thought played, crawled the vampire. Think we what eloquence we have lost! the tongue now cannot disclose its burning language. The poet's fire burns dimly -beauty has faded-the eye forgets its utterance-the countenance, which erst was radiant with high resolve, is clouded-song is hushed-the lyre's strings are unchorded—the domestic affections are sullied. Ah, and who can tell what these would have been, had we remained perfect? who paint their untainted sweets? There would have been no anger to break the melody of their reign; no jarring sound to lacerate the heart: all would have been one fond swell of inexpressible bliss. The lips would have disclosed the passion of the soul; the atmosphere would have been perfumed with love's richest incense; its clear blue sky would have never been shadowed with unkindness; no discord would have been heard. There would have been hopes, but hopes springing from inherent purity; there would have been struggles, but struggles after a higher blessedness.

Our evenings, sin-infected as they are, are beautiful; but what would have been their enchanting loveliness, had we continued our homage to the Eternal? Even now, Eden arises before us clothed with the soft grey of twilight; on yonder bank reposes the lion and the lamb; the dark majestic cedars cast their umbrage on

the rippling waters; there are flowers of every hue and every clime. Along that winding walk stroll the happy pair; the sky is dimpled with the golden clouds of sunset. Presently a silver spot radiates in the empyrean: it brightens, enlarges, expands. Music slowly breaks; it is the melody of heaven. Gentle voices are heard. We gaze; we listen. In the firmament we behold the angels of the Highest: the fair intelligences alight, and are greeted by man; they turn towards the magnificent west. Hark, the vesper hymn sweeps up

wards to the Throne!

But we have one season left sweeter than Eden's sweetest hours. If sin blighted the flowery Paradise, and nipped its odoriferous fruits, Christ has also thrown over the earth a more beautiful and enchanting grace: the dew of the fairer land is on us; the sun of the better world shines in our horizon; the gales of the soft and peaceful clime breathe ever and anon their incense; the ground once more scents with eternal flowers: immortality is ours. The sigh of repentance, and the tear of penitence, and the voice of faith tend upwards. One day in seven is given us; we then rest. Delicious bliss is bestowed; Heaven pours out its unruffled serenity.

The calm and quiet Sabbath is the theme of our poet; the strings of his harp are tuned to its sweetest melody. The pious soul feels the influence of his strain; its very name is music sweeter than Israfil; its bliss is assimilated with that of heaven. The anthem of worship rolls upwards from every star; the matin song issues from the lips of countless intelligences. The thrones, and principalities, and powers, utter the praises of the Immortal. And now from this earth may be