his reproachful speech—“ This one fellow came in to sojourn, and he will needs be a judge." Thus alone in his faith and worship of Jehovah-encompassed with wickedness-all the enjoyment his wealth could procure must have failed to satisfy the mind of Lot, harassed incessantly with scenes of crime he was compelled to hear of or witness. His thoughts must often have wandered back to the happier days of his youth-to the peaceful time when he dwelt with Abram in Canaan, and held with him the intercourse of congenial hearts, and joined with him in worship before the altar of the Lord. Those remembrances could not be effaced by the restless ambition or the anxieties of his new life.* In heart Lot still

The train of thought here suggested brings to mind a beautiful poem by Mrs. Caroline Gilman, in which are expressed the involuntary feelings of the American back-woodsman, who, retreating into the forest, has thrown off the forms of society, and would "fly beyond the Sabbath." We quote the poem entire :

"He flies!

He seeks the moaning forest-trees,

The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep,
The swelling river rushing to the seas,

The cataract, foaming 'neath the dizzy steep,
Or softer streams that by the green banks sleep;
To these he flies!

"He lists

The crackling of the springing deer,
The shrill cry of the soaring waterfowl,

The serpent hissing at his lone couch near,
The wild bear uttering loud her hungry howl,
The panther with his low expecting growl,
Unmoved he lists.

"Wanderer

Beyond the Sabbath, tell me why

With eager steps you shun the haunts of men,
And from the music of the church-bells fly,

honoured the religion he professed, though fearful encroachments had been made by principles and motives antagonistic to piety

That, floating sweetly o'er your native glen,
Call you to worship by their chime again?
Say, wanderer, why?

"You know

You feel, beneath the woodland skies,

When comes the seventh day of sacred rest,

Deep wells of fond remembrance struggling rise

Within the caverns of your rocky breast

A gush of thought, like visions of the blest,
At times you know.

"And you

Will turn, and mark the record tree
In stealthy silence, and a gentle prayer
Unconsciously will struggle to get free,

And you will feel there is a purer air,
More holy stillness over nature fair,
Which softens you.

"How sweet

The strain of skyey minstrelsy,

That floats above you in the wild bird's song!
Seems it to you the hymn of infancy,
Borne on the breezes of remembrance long,
When you were foremost in the Sabbath throng?
Those strains were sweet!

"Such tones

Are swelling yet in many a spot,

Sacredly twining out with praise and joy;

And there's a group,-Oh, they forget you not,
Who prayers and tears for you, for you employ ;
And hopes that even time cannot destroy,

Are in their tones.