thus spoke:--'I am Abaddon, the first-born of death;--ye are my prey. Open thou abyss to receive them!' As he thus spoke they sunk, and the waves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we heard a voice saying, 'Fear not, I am with you. When you pass through the waters they shall not overflow you.' Our hearts were filled with joy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one from the top of the mast cried out, 'Courage, my friends, I see the fair haven, the land that is yet afar off.' Looking up, I found it was a certain friend, who had mounted up for the benefit of contemplating the country before him. Upon seeing _you_, (the friend to whom he was writing,) I was so affected that I started and awaked. Farewell, my friend,--Farewell!" See that fragile form, then, with the glowing spirit within, panting for freedom and its "native skies," borne along in the vessel of Religion, upon a calm and sunny sea. He looks aloft, and anticipates with serene and joyful trust, his entrance into the port of everlasting peace. The vessel glides, with increasing velocity, her sails all set, and gleaming in the reflected radiance of the spirit-world. Now she enters the port, and nears that blessed shore, "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar." The few days which remained to Michael on earth, he spent in correcting his poem of the "Last Judgment," and in pluming his spirit for its upward flight. His bodily strength was exhausted, and he was obliged to keep his bed. His mind was meditative and hopeful, dwelling almost wholly upon various passages of Holy Writ, which he would repeat and comment upon to his friends. Mr. George Lawson, afterwards Dr. Lawson, professor of theology in the "Secession Church," being called to preach for a settlement in the neighborhood of Kinnesswood, hastened upon his arrival there, to see his friend Bruce. He found him in bed, with his countenance pale as death, while his eyes shone like lamps in a sepulchre. The poet was delighted to see him, and spoke with as much ease and freedom as if he had been in perfect health. Mr. Lawson remarked to him that he was glad to see him so cheerful. "And why," said he, "should not a man be cheerful on the verge of heaven?" "But," said Mr. L., "you look so emaciated. I am afraid you cannot last long." "You remind me," he replied, "of the story of the Irishman, who was told that his hovel was about to fall, and I answer with him, _Let it fall, it is not mine!_"