And the hurrying passer by,
Shuddering, damp, and chill,

Quickened his pace as the falling mist
Grew thicker and heavier still,

Up through the misty air

"Came the sound of the wild, coarse song, As a band of drunken, riotous youths Went noisily reeling along.

A terrible sight to see!

Degraded, and base, and' low;

Yet trained, may be from their earliest years,
In the dwellings of sin and woe!

Many-but ah, not all!

There was one in that wild, rough band, Led in his childhood in other paths

By a mother's tenderest hand.

Is it gone?-can it be all gone?]

Is it wasted, that tender care?

Oh, Davy! the eye of thy mother at home,
Could it bear to have seen thee there?

They passed, and the shout was gone;
But whither went each poor lad?

To what den of corruption, and vice, and sin,
Or misery dreary and sad?

The mind of the wandering boy,

Excited by fiery drink,

Turned shrinking away from his different past,

And little he cared to think.

To think of the friends at home,

Himself who had sunk so low!

More certain than ever it seemeth to him
He can never return to them now.

Lower and lower still

He sank as the weeks went past;

Fighting and drinking,-in theft and crime,—

What hope it would end at last?

But still in his far-off home

The mother and sister prayed,

And clung to those words with a desperate grasp: "Hope, and be undismayed."

To the mother at dead of night

He came in her wakeful dreams,

And many an hour of weeping and prayer
She would spend ere the morning beams.

At the window up in the thatch,

Maggy, with eyelids wet,

Looked out at the starlight, and sadly prayed, "Oh, Father! restore him yet!"

Then, firm in her childlike trust,
Would lay her down in her bed,

And sleep but to dream of his quick return,
And the joyous tears they would shed.
But the wintry snows came down,

And the wintry tempests beat,

And they shuddered to think of the piercing cold

To the wanderer's shoeless feet.

Little they knew, or dreamed,

That hunger, and want, and cold

Were breaking the stubborn, rebellious will,
And leading him back to the fold.

One night, it was Christmas eve,—
They sat in the fireside glow,

While out in the darkness, unheard, unseen,
Was falling the silent snow.
Hush,-hush,-hush!

For over the fields along,

Rising and falling, and dying away,

There cometh a Christmas song:

"Listen to our carol, listen!—

Chilly is the night:

Up above us stars do glisten,-
Ah, so bright, so bright!

"So the star was shining, shining,
Long long years ago,
And the sages wise divining,
Followed, high and low :

"Followed, followed to the manger,

To the cattle-stall,

Where he lay, the heavenly Stranger,

Infant weak and small.

"Peace on earth, good will from heaven!
Still the Saviour lives!

Have ye, like him, all forgiven,
As your Lord forgives?

"Hearken to our carol, hearken!
On this Christmas night;
Let not anger, malice darken
Heaven's own blessed light!

""Tis your heavenly Father's pleasure,

Love ye, love ye well!

Meting out love's fullest measure:

Now farewell!-farewell!"

Then the old man bowed his head,
And covered his rugged brow,
And the pent-up grief of many a day
Burst forth in its anguish now.

Hark.-hark,-hark?

*

Hear ye the old church-bell?

With its sober voice in the silent night,
The voice that ye know so well?

The old year dies away.—

A few pulsations more,

And, bearing its burden of sorrow and sin,
'Twill be drifting from Time's rough shore.

The light of the cottage hearth

Shines out though the night be late,
And the hearts that beat in the cottage home
With a terrible longing wait.

They are bending over the form

Of their long-lost, wandering boy;

But his death-like look and his feeble breath
Have stifled their burst of joy.

They will not weep, lest tears

Should hinder their anxious gaze;

They dare not speak, and they cannot pray;--
But oh, how they long to praise!

Poor lad! but his sunken cheeks,
And his brow all knit with pain,
And his trembling limbs, all join to plead
For pardon, and not in vain!

WAITING FOR THE HOLY SPIRIT.*

NEARLY twenty years have now passed away since I became acquainted with the individual of whom I am now to speak. I was called upon to preach, in connection with other ministers of the gospel, in a large village, and during the continuance of what was denominated a protracted meeting." These meetings had this designation from the fact, that they were continued, from day to day, for several *By the Rev. Dr. Spencer, of New York.

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successive days. At one of these meetings, I preached a sermon on the influences of the Holy Spirit. It was a time of revival in the church; and the truths of the gospel preached at such a time, when the Spirit of God. was poured out, and when people were peculiarly attentive and solemn, were not likely to be entirely forgotten, even by those who were mere hearers of the word.

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Some months after this, as I entered the same village again, on my way from a similar meeting in an adjoining parish, I beheld a crowd of people entering the town hall. I inquired the reason, and was told there was a religious meeting there that evening." I gave my horse into the charge of the ostler, mingled with the crowd, and entered the hall. Having already preached three times that day, I was too much wearied to think of doing anything more, and therefore endeavoured to keep out of sight of the clergyman. My attempt was in vain. He discovered me, and requested me to come forward to the desk. I preached a short sermon, the people dispersed, and I went with the clergyman to his home.

We were not seated, before a servant entered, and said a lady wished to see me. I immediately stepped into the hall, and a lady, about forty years of age, addressed me with evident agitation:

"I beg your pardon for troubling you to-night, sir, but I cannot help it. I have longed to see you ever since you preached here in August. I have often felt that I would give anything to see you, for even five minutes. I have prayed for that privilege. And when I saw you in the town hall to-night, I was so rejoiced that I could hardly remain in my seat; and I determined to follow you when you went out, till I got a chance to speak with you."

"I am very glad to see you, madam; but I suspect you I have taken all this trouble in vain."

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Why, sir, cannot you talk with me one minute? cannot you answer me one question?" said she, her eyes overflowing with tears.

"Certainly, certainly, madam; I can talk with you as long as you please to favour me with your company, and will answer any questions you choose to ask, as well as I can; but I suspect you need an aid which I cannot give you."

"Sir, I want only one thing of you. I want you to tell me how I shall procure the Holy Spirit. I have wanted to

ask you this question for months. If you will only tell me, I will not intrude myself upon you any longer."

Entirely overcome with her emotions, my visitor wept like a child as she said this. She stood before me, trembling and weeping as if her heart would break. And as she aimed to repress her emotions, and removed her handkerchief from her eyes, the light of the hall-lamp shone full upon her face, and I was surprised at the deep solemnity and determination which appeared in one of the most intelligent and beautiful countenances that I ever beheld.

At this instant the lady of the house, perceiving the nature of our conversation, invited us into a private room. My new acquaintance told me who she was, and repeated the cause of her calling upon me. I asked her some questions, and conversed with her for some minutes, for the purpose of ascertaining more exactly the state of her mind, and adapting my words accordingly. She was in middle life and married, having two children. Her husband was not a pious man; and her thoughts about her own salvation had led her to think much of his, and of the duty she owed to her children. Her first serious impressions arose from the thought, that, not being a believer, she could not dedicate her children to God or fitly train them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

"Oh! sir," said she, (the tears streaming from her eyes, and her sensations almost choking utterance), "I would give all the world to be a Christian! I know I am a sinner, an undone sinner! I have a vile and wicked heart. I have sinned all my life! I wonder God has spared me so long!" "But he has spared you, madam, when you did not deserve it. And what has he spared you for, but that you should repent of sin and flee to Christ for pardon?"

"I would repent, if I could. I want to be a Christian. But my hard, wicked heart is stronger than I! For years I have read my Bible, and struggled and prayed; and it has done me no good! I am afraid I shall be cast off for ever! God has not given me his Spirit!"

"Probably your danger is greater than you think. But there is mercy in Christ for the chief of sinners. His blood cleanseth from

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"I know it, sir; I know all that from my Bible. I have read it a thousand times. But I cannot come to Christ

without the Holy Spirit."