The morning dawned full darkly, the rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy town: The thunder crashed across the heaven, the fatal hour was come, Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below, and anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see him die. Ah God! that ghastly gibbet! how dismal 'tis to see The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree! He is coming! he is coming!-Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, there was luster in his eye, And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die: There was color in his visage, though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marveled as they saw him pass, that great and goodly man! He mounted up the scaffold, and he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, and they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether the eye of God shone through: As The grim Geneva ministers with anxious scowl drew near, you have seen the ravens flock around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, but alone he bent the knee; And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace beneath the gallows-tree. Then, radiant and serene, he rose, and cast his cloak away; For he had ta'en his latest look of earth and sun and day. A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder, as it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thun. der roll, And no man dared to look aloft,-fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky-the work of death was done. THE OBJECT OF MISSIONS.-FRANCIS WAYLAND. Our object will not have been accomplished till the toma hawk shall be buried forever, and the tree of peace spread its broad branches from the Atlantic to the Pacific; until a thousand smiling villages shall be reflected from the waves of the Missouri, and the distant valleys of the West echo with the song of the reaper; till the wilderness and the solitary place shall have been glad for us, and the desert has rejoiced, and blossomed as the rose. Our labors are not to cease, until the last slave-ship shall have visited the coast of Africa, and, the nations of Europe and America having long since redressed her aggravated wrongs, Ethiopia, from the Mediterranean to the Cape, shall have stretched forth her hand unto God. How changed will then be the face of Asia! Bramins, and sooders, and castes, and shasters, will have passed away, like the mist which rolls up the mountain's side before the rising glories of a summer's morning, while the land on which it rested, shining forth in all its loveliness, shall, from its numberless habitations, send forth the high praises of God and the Lamb. The Hindoo mother will gaze upon her infant with the same tenderness which throbs in the breast of any one of you who now hears me, and the Hindoo son will pour into the wounded bosom of his widowed parent the oil of peace and consolation. In a word, point us to the loveliest village that smiles upon a Scottish or New England landscape, and compare it with the filthiness and brutality of a Caffrarian kraal, aud we tell you, that our object is to render that Caffrarian kraal as happy and as gladsome as that Scottish or New England village. Point us to the spot on the face of the earth, where liberty is best understood and most perfectly enjoyed, where intellect shoots forth in its richest luxuriance, and where ali the kindlier feelings of the heart are constantly seen in their most graceful exercise; point us to the loveliest, and happiest neighborhood in the world on which we dwell, and we tell you, that our object is to render this whole earth, with all its nations, and kindreds, and tongues, and people, as happy, nay, happier, than that neighborhood. We do believe that "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Our object is to convey to those who are perishing the news of this salvation. It is to furnish every family upon the face of the whole earth with the word of God written in its own language, and to send to every neighborhood a preacher of the cross of Christ. Our object will not be accomplished until every idol temple shall have been utterly abolished, and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room; until this earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal beings are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall become one universal temple, in which the children of men are learning the anthems of the blessed above, and becoming meet to join the general assembly and church of the first born, whose names are written in heaven. Our design will not be completed until "One song employs all nations, and all cry, 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us;' The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every child of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its operations are of necessity limited. It would confer upon every individual on earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation can bestow. It would rescue the world from the indignation and wrath, tribulation and anguish, reserved for every son of man that doeth evil, and give it a title to glory, honor, and immortality. You see, then, that our object is, not only o affect every individual of the species, but to affect him in the momentous extremes of infinite happiness and infinite woe. And now, we ask, what object, ever undertaken by man, can compare with this same design of evangelizing the world? Patriotism itself fades away before it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and eternal destinies of the whole family of man. And now, deliberately consider the nature of the missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of its object; the high moral and intellectual powers which are to be called forth in its execution; the simplicity, benevolence, and efficacy of the means by which all this is to be achieved; and we ask you, Does not every other enterprise to which man ever put forth his strength, dwindle into insignificance before that of preaching Christ crucified to a lost and perishing world? CHO-CHE-BANG AND CHI-CHIL-BLOO. AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE. Away, far off in China, many, many years ago,— In the hottest part of China, where they never heard of snow, There lived a rich old planter in the province of Ko-whang, Who had an only daughter, and her name was Cho-cheBang. The maiden was a jewel, a celestial beauty rare, With catty-cornered eyebrows and carrot-colored hair; One foot was scarce three inches long, the other knew no bounds, She'd numbered fourteen summers, and she weighed three hundred pounds. On the dreary shores of Lapland, 'mid its never-melting snows, Where the Roly-boly-Alice in her ruddy beauty glows, Lived a little dwarfish tinker, who in height stood three feet two, And from his endless shivering, they called him Chi-chil Bloo. The crooked little tinker, as he dragged his weary way From hut to hut to ply his craft, scarce seemed of human clay; fis eyes were like to marbles set in little seas of glue, His cheeks a sickly yellow, and his nose a dirty blue. Now Chi-chil-Bloo, though born in snow and reared upon its breast, Loved not the bleak and dismal land in which he knew no rest; He bid adieu unto the scenes of never-ending storm, And traveled forth to seek some land where he might keep him warm; He trudged two years his weary way far from the land of snow, Inside the walls of China, to where strangers seldom go; When wearied with his pilgrimage he halted at Ko-whang, And there became acquainted with the father of Che-Bang. The old man heard his wondrous tale of sights that he had seen, Where nature wore a winding-sheet, and shrouded all things green, And pondering o'er within his mind if wonders such could be, At last engaged poor Chi-chil-Bloo to cultivate his tea. It had always been the custom of the fairy-like Che-Bang, She stepped from out her palanquin, and then dismissed her train, With instructions that an hour past they might return again; She then upraised the filmy veil that hid her charms from sight, And poor Chi-chil-Bloo beheld a face to him surpassing bright; He gazed transfixed with wonder,-to him surpassing fair Were her rounded-up proportions and her salmon-colored hair, He lingered in a dreamy trance, nor woke he from his bliss She led him to a bower, and beside the dwarf she kneeled, |