'Of the innumerable eyes, that open upon nature, none but those of man, see its author and its end.' This solemn privilege is the birth-right of the beings of immortality--of those, who perish not in time, but were formed, in some greater hour, to be companions in eternity. The mighty Being, who watches the revolutions of the material world, opens in this manner to our eyes the laws of his government; and tells us, that it is not the momentary state, but the final issue, which is to disclose its eternal design. Indeed the whole volume of nature is a natural revelation to man, often overlooked--often misused--seldom understood--but plain and solemn in its language, and full of the wisdom, justice and mercy of its author. While, then, all inferior nature shrinks instinctively from the winds of Autumn and the storms of winter, to the high intellect of man they teach ennobling lessons. To him the inclemency of winter is no less eloquent than the abundance of Autumn, or the joyous promise of Spring. He knows, that the fair and beautiful of nature now buried in an icy covering, have still a principle of life within them; and that the gay tendrils of the vine and the blushing buds of the rose will soon be put forth in the breath of summer. The stiffened earth, he knows, will soon send forth her children in renewed beauty, and he believes, that he himself, leaving the chrysalis form of earthly clay will wing his flight in the regions of eternity. THE PLAGUE. By Charles P. Ilsley. "And they that took the disease died suddenly; and immediately their bodies became covered with spots; and they were hurried away to the grave without delay: And the men who bore the corpse, as they went their way, cried with a loud voice, "_Room for the dead!_" and whosoever heard the cry, fled from the sound thereof with great fear and trembling." _Anon._ "Room for the dead!"--a cry went forth-- "A grave--a grave prepare!" The solemn words rose fearfully Up through the stilly air: "Room for the dead!"--and a corse was borne And laid within the pit; But a mother's voice was sadly heard-- And a breaking heart was in each word-- "Oh, bury him not yet!" The mother knelt beside the grave, And prayed to see her son; 'Twas death to stop--but by her prayers The wretched boon was won, And they raised the coffin from the pit, And then afar they fled-- For the once fair face was spotted now-- But the mother pressed her dead child's brow, And in a faint voice said-- "Nor plague nor spots shall hinder me From kissing thee, lost one! For what, alas! is life or death Since thou art gone, my son!" And she bent and kissed the livid brow, While tearless was her eye; Then her voice rang wildly in the air-- "Widow and childless!--God, is there Aught left me but--to die!"