He falls!  Napoleon Buonaparte is gone: 
  Who conquered thousands, conquered now by one: 
  His strength diminished, and his glory fled;
  His kingdom taken, and his honour dead. 
  Though clad in warlike state,—­without command;
  A captive buried in a foreign land: 
  Oh! might we hope the captive now is free,
  Escaped from bondage into liberty.

“In private I have been greatly blessed; but, oh! the sense of ignorance I feel makes me ashamed:  yet I know not that I ever felt a deeper thirst for all that God can give.  Come, Lord, and diffuse Thy presence through my soul.  I have been reading Bramwell’s Memoir; how desirable his life!  How enviable his death!  Help me, Lord, to follow after, and to walk in close communion with Thee; that I may apprehend that, for which I am apprehended in Christ Jesus.—­At.  St Michael’s Church the Rev. John Graham improved the death of the Rev. William Richardson, who for half a century has laboured in York, and been much esteemed on account of his ministerial usefulness.  He gave a concise account of Mr. R.’s literary and spiritual attainments.  His Christian character was excellent.  His chief joy was in Christ crucified; and his constant prayer, that he might not live longer than he could be useful.  His labours continued up to his last illness, which lasted only a week, and his last words were, ‘My pleasures are to come.’  Thus died this eminent minister of Jesus Christ, aged 76.  To me it was a season of especial profit; angels seemed hovering around.”

  REFLECTIONS.

  Returning seasons bid reflection wake,
  And o’er the past a winding passage take: 
  Ah! what a scene of change arrests the mind,
  Within the compass of five months behind! 
  In many a home is hushed the voice of mirth,
  And sorrow, as a flood, o’erflows the earth. 
  Here one, by sad misfortune followed fast,
  In hopeless indigence is plunged at last. 
  Another, by disaster thrown aside,
  Has got a crippled limb to prop his side. 
  There, death has made a breach, and left forlorn
  The widowed mother, and the babe unborn. 
  Here, weeps the father o’er his orphan child,
  Who thinks it strange, for formerly he smiled: 
  Oh! who can tell the sorrows of his breast? 
  ’Tis sad experience must reveal the rest.

  A few days since, a mournful crowd appeared,
  In sable garb, and to the church repaired;
  Ask you the reason of their measured pace,
  Why silent all, and tears on every face. 
  Alas! the Pastor’s dead, who, fifty years,
  The Gospel tidings sounded in their ears:—­
  A man of God, endued with purpose strong,
  Who lived the truth he taught, and hated wrong,
  Full thirty years, the schools enjoyed his care;
  The sick, the poor, the Missions claimed a share. 
  But now, we hear his friendly voice no more;
  His course is finished, and the fight is o’er. 
  Come, hear the accents of his flying lips,
  “My pleasures are to come;”—­the curtain slips,
  And hides what follows from our curious eyes: 
  Enough! he joins the chorus of the skies.