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Thick-coming thoughts like these did fill
Her large blue eyes with gentle grief,
When through the night (so very still
Was heard the whistling leaf,)
A step drew near-a voice was heard—
The fur-clad labourer came at last;
The embers on the hearth she stirred,
The weary one embraced—
Great sorrow sat most heavily
On furrowed brow, and languid eye.

"Mine own," he said, and clasped her hand, Her small white hand, within his twain,

"I cannot bear this weary land,

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This labour all in vain ;

I preach the word, and none will hear,
Or hear, God's mercy to despise;
And palsying doubt, and boding fear,
Within my breast arise;

The Lord denies to bless my prayer,

Thou weepest-Yes! our home is fair!

Come, we'll return! the hind refrains

To sow, when nothing springs to reap;

We will return to blither plains,

Of corn, and trees, and sheep; There's pestilence around us now,

And winter, with his noons of night, And cold, rude men, who will not bow

To worship God aright:

For mine own holy land I sigh,

If but to breathe its air-and die!"

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Lo! while he mourned, a sudden change
Crimsoned her lip, and fired her eye,
And boldness, to herself most strange,
Spoke out in her reply—

"Cheer thee, my faithful! keep thy trust
In One above, the Just, the Wise,
Who, for he knows us frail as dust,
Our faith and courage tries;

Our friends are far, but God is near,
Ay, to this land of gloom and fear!

"I, too, have wrestled with despair,

And, weeping, yearned to live and die Within some Christian dwelling fair Of my sweet Germany!

But it hath passed, and I am strong;
Our God, who sent us here to toil,
Can build the shrine, and wake the song,
On this unthankful soil;

And bow the heathen heart of stone
To worship at his lofty throne!"

"Cheer thee, mine own! the day is nigh,
The seed is sown, the well is found;
And soon, from out the kindling sky,
Shall glory stream around;

And soon the plenteous garden, piled
With golden harvests, shall o'erflow,
And gushing fountains, in the wild,
Bid rose and lily blow;

And for the labourer, toil-oppressed,

Are heaven's unfailing homes of rest!"

She spoke with such a beaming eye,
And such a mild benignant brow,
As angel's, beaming from the sky,
To comfort earth below:

Her sweet words fell like healing dew
Upon the pastor's heart of care,
And, side by side, to God anew

They vowed themselves in prayer; And blest with sleep more sweet to see Were none that night in Germany.

REMINISCENCES OF FELIX NEFF, AND HIS CHURCH AT VIOLINS.

VIGNETTE.

BY THE REV. W. S. GILLY, D.D., VICAR OF NORHAM.

THE Church at Violins presents an interesting object for the exercise of an artist's taste and skill: he can find just enough, immediately about it, to make a beautiful picture, and, without any violation of fidelity, he may give it the air of one of those charming village sanctuaries which rest in the bosom of all that is lovely, peaceful, and attractive. It stands on ground which rises gradually from the bed of a mountain torrent, and the surface of it is broken up by fragments of rock, and tossed about into those irregular forms which the pencil of a clever draughtsman will not fail to improve. A few trees, with scanty foliage, help out the landscape; but these, with the mountain behind shadowed out, look like a sheltering hill-side, and may be so adjusted as to make the whole a smiling scene of repose and enjoyment. Then there is the belfry raising its unostentatious turret a little above the roof, and relieving the monotony of the fabric, and bringing to your imagination the sound of the Sabbath bell. And the villagers who have been summoned by its call, hastening to greet their pastor at the church door, and to follow him with devout and affectionate hearts into the house of their God.

Such is the graceful picture which an artist may sketch, who chooses his position and his point of view; but you must plant your foot on the soil upon which this sanctuary is built, and

you must drag your weary steps along many a rugged path, and you must see with your own eyes the dismal rocks of Val Tressynière, before you can have any idea of this dreary portion of the "Pays de Nêff," or country to which the missionary labours of Neff have given an abiding name and interest.

It was the distinguishing merit of Felix Neff, that he dedicated himself to God, and to the instruction of God's children, in the most literal sense of the word, without any compromise or reservation, without any regard to self or to personal consideration, or to creature-comforts: he served his Master, where service was most arduous and most repulsive.

A native of the loveliest part of Switzerland, he might have chosen his own fair country, and the banks of the lake of Geneva, and scenes enlivened by the blue waters of the Rhone, for the place of his spiritual labours; and he might have been continued in the midst of relations and friends, and early associates, whose affection and companionship would have comforted him, in his hours of trouble. Or if he were determined to give strangers the benefit of his instruction, he might have pitched his tent under the brilliant sun, and in the rich plains of Languedoc. Nay, if he thought it right to supply the destitution of the High Alps, and to relieve the spiritual wants of mountaineers, who traced their Christianity to a remote period, and who, from time immemorial, had kept themselves distinct from the Roman Catholic church; in that case he might at least have taken up his residence in one of the Alpine parishes which was most favourable to health and convenience. But, in the spirit of a Missionary, he went where he was most wanted, and there, in his privations, and exposure to cold and hunger, and fatigue of body and mind, he died every day. It is much easier to elevate our courage for a martyr's death, and to perish on the scaffold or at the stake, than to select the last

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