Cherished Memories [pp. 370-371]

370 WITHOUT HOPE IN THE WORLD.-CHERISHED MEMORIES.
seek its guidance, it is "a light to the feet, and a
lamp to the path."
The heart of Anastasia was early visited with its
influence, and bathed in its holy light. Amid all
the allurements and blandishments of earth, she
felt and yielded to its more than magic power. Her
gifted and cultivated mind, united with personal
beauty, made her an attractive object, around which
kindred spirits circled, and on whom she shone.
But, beautiful and attractive as she was while liv ing, there was a grace and beauty imparted to her,
when passing away, that far outshone all that eye
had ever beheld before, in the proudest, happiest
day of her life.
'Tis said that "blessings brighten as they take
their flight." We know that stars grow brighter as
they near the verge that hides them from human
vision, and the transit of an orb marks the period
of its greatest brilliancy. So with the object of our
notice: Anastasia grew brighter and brighter as she
receded from us, until she gently " faded away into
the light of heaven." She has only passed away
from this to another, better sphere, for
"The dead are like the stars by day Unseen to mortal eye;
Yet, not extinct, they wend their way,
In glory, through the sky."
The hour had come. Friends clustered around
her, and, in bitter anguish, wept that one so lovely
should thus early die. She smiled reproof, and, to
broken hearts, it was like the voice of Jesus over
stormy Galilee. Her language was full of peace and
heaven. She entered the threshold of the dark valley, but, ere she was lost to view, turned, and threw
back from a heaven-beaming countenance the radiance of immortality. Jesus was with her there. As
the lovely Ceres blooms at night, so was she a light
and a joy in the valley. To friends who loved her
it would have been pleasant to live, but with her
'twas
"Far better to die."
WITHOUT HOPE IN THE WORLD.
BY REV. B. M. GBNUYO.
IT once became my duty to visit one who was
supposed to be drawing near to the gates of death.
He was a young man, and had been full of hope
and worldly expectation. His friends were fearful
that the disease with which he was afflicted might
be fatal, and gave occ~asional intimations of their
fears to him. On his mind, however, this produced
but little effect. It grieved him that he was ill, and
it was with reluctance that he referred to his sickness; yet, when he must speak of his situation, his
expressions were, that he should "soon be well."
Still, day by day he grew weaker, and, to every
experienced observer, it was evident that the sly,
destroying hand of Consumption was making fearful inroads in his constitution, and that, ere long, his
hopes must sink, and he must die. The idea of this
gave him pain. To religion he had not attended;
on death he had not very seriously thought; and
now, in the prime of life, must he die? From
this his every feeling recoiled; and when he could
scarcely turn himself in bed, he thought he should
"be about in a few days." These, however, were
deceitful hopes. The arrow of death had touched
his vitals, and he sunk fast away, from the warmth
of life to the coldness of the tomb. It is unneces sary to trace his history further; and it may be
only proper to remark, that, like thousands of
others, he had lived without the fear of God before
his eyes, or his love in his heart, and his last were
his saddest days.
Is this the case with such as have a well-grounded
hope in the Gospel of the Son of God? Do they
cling to life with a dying grasp, or shudder when the
hollow voice of the last messenger calls them away?
It is the universal privilege of mankind to have the
" sting of death" removed, and the high hopes of im mortality so firmly planted on the Rock of Ages, that
the departure from this life will be desired rather
than dreaded. This privilege is held out to our ac ceptance in the Gospel of the Prince of Peace, and,
if embraced and retained, will sweeten life, and
render its close the most sacred and triumphant of
all our days.
CHERISHED MEMORIES.
"And other days come back to me,
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind."
CHILDx HAROLD.
WHAT a magic charm encircles the past! How
we love to lift the misty vail which time has cast
over cherished remembrances, and commune with
past hours, associated, as they are, with all that is
tender and endearing! Indeed, we seem to be in
the very presence of those with whom we once held
sweet converse; while oft a single thought has
"touched a chord of memory's lyre," which breathed
a strain of touching harmony to her spell-bound
captive. But her notes are not all gladness; ever
and anon, a sadder dirge is played with trembling
touch. May-be the writer said truly, that when
Memory lingers on past pleasure, she turns it all to
grief. However that may be, there are scenes in
our life that we never forget; they stand prominently forth-little Meccas, to which memory makes
frequent pilgrimages. Such is the circumstance I am
about to relate, the remembrance of which is "pleasant and mournful to the soul."
In the autumn of 184- I commenced my labors
in a seminary in one of the southern states. I was
a stranger among strangers, but, in a short time,
found those whom I could love, and who loved in
urn.
I