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The moon now shone bright, and the whip-poor-will's lay

Was pensively sung to the shadows of even ; The beans of the twilight were melting away,

And the meteor shot swift o'er the blue vault of heaven.

In my heart there was calmness and pleasure the while,

The landscape around scemed reposing in gladness, 'Neath the moon's mellow lustre, that danced with a smile,

On Ticonderoga, now mouldering in sadness. And my thoughts seemed like visions of days which are past ;

I thought of the deadl, who in silence are sleeping ; Of the warriors, who bruvely in death fell at last,

O'er whose mem'ry their friends still in sadness are weeping.

As I thourht on these scenes in the stillness of night,

My bark the call. 2 phyr so slowly was urging ; And I heard from a thicket impervious to sight,

The voice of a wretch from the silence emerging.

“ Gone, gone, my father! stars are o'er thee shooting,

While low thou lest beneath this miry clay;
Gone, gone, niy mother ! owls are o'er thee hooting,

And thou no more shall see the light of day.

Gone, Oh ! my husband ! soon from thee Imparted,

On wirom leaned for every eartbly bliss ;
Soon, th! too soon! the arrow keen was darted,

That plunged me deep in misery's dark abyss.

Hush, hush, my babe! thou'lt never know my anguish;

Thou’lt never know a mother's woes, and tears ; Hush, hush, thou starveling! in silence let me languish,

Death soon will end my gloomy doubts, and fears.

Sleep gently now ; nor hear a mother's groaning,

Her heilt in seineri at what they fare must be ; Slep o my chull, nor held a mother's moaning,

For ills of thine, which she will never see.

Ah! soon trou'lt wake, and none shall hush thy crying,

Noroner soothe thee on her gentle ''reast; For now my soul her unknown wing is trying,

To suik her final-her cternal rest.

Ah! who shall heed thee, when my days are finished,

Wheo low thy mother lies beneath the soil ;There is one friend whose care is ne'er dimished,

Though we may cease from every earthiy toil.

My Savionr, hear a mother's weak petition,

My darling spure; be thou his earthly stay : Spar,spare the orphan! pity his condition,

Be thou dois friend, whose friends are far away.

Hush thee, my child ; the angels watch be o'er thee,

A dll, who fcds the ravens when they cry ; Feel, pipirert tree, from the ills before thee,

And be thy Saviour-God forever nigh.

Farewell, my child ! short is the hour that's given,

That I may press the to my dying breast;
Earewell, sweet babe-0 may we meet in heaven,

And sing the endless song among the blest."
Oh! it was but too soon, that the mother was sundered,

From the sweet, darling babe, who was laid by her side ;-
I was quickly on shore, but her hours were then membered,

And no more through her heart flowed the life giving tide.

Dark, dark was the wood-shade, which thickened around,

And lone was the cot where the mother was sleeping ;
Not a living inhabitant there could be found,
Save the infant, who still by his mother was weeping.

R. L.

THE diamond, when placed in the bright solar beam,

Itself kindles up to a star;
And pours from its center a ravishing stream,

That shines on the eye from afar.
So the saint, when he feels that his sins are forgiven,

When his bosom love's influence warms,
When he walks in the glorious vista of heaven

Seems one of the heavenly forms.

TO THE PUBLIC.

THIS Number completes the first volume of “ The Pilgrim.”

As it is found to be impracticable to continue its publication longer, the Editor would take this opportunity of expressing his acknowledgements to those who have afforded it the assistance of their support and patronage. Our mutual reward must be found in the consciousness of having conceived a laudable undertaking, and in the many Aattering assurances, received from the public of the popularity and usefulness of the work.

It is the lot of almost all periodical publications to struggle into being with difficulty. It is the fate of the Pilgrim, to die amidst those struggles, not so much for the want of patronage abroad, as through the influence of means, which a tenderness for the character of professed brethren has hitherto kept from the knowledge of the public.

And, now that the “ Pilgrim's progress" is at an end, we will pass no other commendation upon it, than by observing that he has had the singular fortune to walk in many of the steps of his renowned ancestor, in the days of Bunyan, ; having been, like him, in the slough of despond; having met with his enemies at the wicket gate; his friends in the INTERPRETER'S Horse ; and his supports and consolations at the foot of the Cross. And if our Pilgrim is not now able, like him, to surmount the Hill Difficulty, it is not

on account of the loss of his Roll, or any dread of the Lions that frown upon his path.

The Pilgrim retires from his friends, like the truest hearts, without any formal adieu, believing, however, that the relation which bas subsisted between us for a year, does not close without mutual regret.

In publishing the Pilgrim, we have been actuated by a desire to disseminate that practical knowledge, which we deem so necessary at the present day. In obedience still to this desire, and as a compensation to our subscribers for the discontinuance of the Pilgrim, we most cheerfully recommend to them the Christian Spectator, published in New-Haven, as a work of transcendant ment, and eminently calculated to promote the ends of practical piety, and sound religious instruction. The Spectator is published monthly, each number consisting of 56 octavo pages, at $3 per annum, which brings it to subscribers at about the same rate with the Pilgrim. We would suggest to Clergymen, the importance of circulating among their flocks the Spectator, or some other practical work, as an antidote to the present unhealthy state of the Christian public, which springs from an inordinate thirst for religious intelligence, and an attendant disrelish for practical reading. USTUSED OF

EDITOR.

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