warning voice of God wafted on the breeze, and His handwriting luminous in the sunbeam. Then a sterner manifestation may be needed to rouse the ungrateful, and He makes His ordination heard dreadfully in the thunder, and seen glaringly in the lightning, and revealed in the howling of the wind and the awful heaving of the waters! Yet if, amid such recurrences, a sense of danger steals over the mind, though a sad memento-it is furnished, as the emblematic coffin at the Egyptian banquets, in providential kindness, teaching a salutary lesson of dependence and protection.

THE WIZARD OF THE CATHEDRAL.

BY GEORGE W. CHRISTY, ESQ.

WHEN the Vesper bell doth toll,
Calling on the weary soul,
To tell a prayer;

And the dim old arches ring,

As the full voiced choir do sing,
A solemn air;

Up and down, as in a spell,

Treads that ancient sentinel,

Day and night, and night and day,
Ever seemeth he a prey,

To black despair.

Wan in feature, bent in form,

Through the sunshine, through the storm,

Round that ancient building going,

Upward glances often throwing,

Never weary,-in a spell,

Treads that aged sentinel.

People say that he is crazed:
Strangers passing, seem amazed,
As they ask:

Where he lives, and what his name,

Where he goes, and whence he came.
Idle task;

Whence he came, or whither goes,
None may tell, for no one knows,
Tis a simple tale to tell
Why he plays the sentinel.

Dreaming ever in his mind,
That by searching he will find,
A treasure;

Lost to him long years before,
Near that old cathedral door;
That the measure,

Of his joys, will come again,
If the treasure he regain!

Wan in feature, bent in form, Through the sunshine and the storm, For that treasure,

Looks he here, and looks he there,

Round the building everywhere;

That the measure

Of his joys, may come again,

To relieve his fevered brain.

Sentinel, thy vigils keep,

Round that ancient building still;
Near its sacred threshold sleep,
There await thy master's will.
'Tis the treasure of thy soul,
Which thy dreaming fancy sees;
List! again that Vesper toll,
Enter, crawling on thy knees.
Ashes cast upon thy head
Bending meekly to the ground:
Now arise thy dream hath fled,
Lo the treasure lost, is found!

THE RELATIVE CONDITION OF MAN IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES.

BY HON. HENRY A. BULLARD.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,-When, in my anxiety to contribute my mite to the usefulness of the People's Lyceum, I consented to be inscribed among those who should address you in the course of the season, I was fearful that pressing engagements of a public nature, and occasional illness, might compel me to come forward with very inadequate preparation, and to throw myself on your indulgence. My anxiety was greatly increased after I had selected the theme which had been

announced to you, "The relative condition of

Man in ancient and modern times." The subject, upon reflection, appeared to me so vast-so entirely beyond the limited range of my studies

-so much more worthy of a profound treatise swelling into volumes than an ephemeral address