CHANGES OF TIME.

A STRAY LEAF FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF WILLIE WARE.

ONE of the most striking features of life, is change. To-day, we enjoy the blessings of health; to-morrow, the hand of sickness is heavily laid upon us. To-day, friends gather around us; to-morrow, they are numbered with the dead. The flowers that bloom in their beauty to-day, fade and die beneath to-morrow’s scorching sun.

I saw a young girl beautiful and lovely, as she gaily entered the brilliantly-lighted saloons of a princely edifice, proudly leaning on the arm of her handsome cavalier. I saw her as she was whirled past me in the giddy waltz — I saw her graceful form as it swayed to and fro in keeping with the rich music that was wafted on the midnight air. I heard a merry laugh break from those ruby lips, and a look of satisfied pride rested on her sunny countenance. She was happy then — Do thought of the future entered her mind. Sickness had never visited her couch. Care had never troubled her, and she knew not what anxiety was— her only thought was how she might best while away the weary hours that, unemployed by gayety hung heavily upon her hands.

Again I saw her, but it was not at the midnight hour, and surrounded by scenes of mirth and pleasure, but it was at the early dawn of day. The glorious sun was shining brightly, but its bright rays were closely shut out of the sick chamber by the heavy drapery that hung the windows— not the faintest ray found its way to the bedside of the sick and dying. The voice of music and gladness was hushed; the heart that so lately beat

with gratified pride, now lay in the agonies of death; the countenance so lately lit with radiant smiles, now distorted by pain. Silence, deep silence, reigns, unbroken save by the cries of anguish that rise from those lips that were wont to send forth such merry peals of laughter. The gay and rich must die — alas! how true these words. Friends gather round the bedside of the dying, to take a last look of the one they love. No voice of prayer is raised in behalf of the dying, for the minister has not arrived in time, and not one among that number knows how to pray. What! not know how to pray! And can that be said of any who live in this enlightened age, with the Bible at their right hand and left? Even so, there are many — alas! that it should be so.

Shriek after shriek of agony fills the air, and with the cry of “Save — oh ! — save me!” the dying girl sinks back upon her pillow lifeless. No smile of joy rests upon that countenance, but the look of pain and misery that rests upon the countenance of all who are not at peace with God.

I saw a bright and lovely babe, full of joy and innocence as he fondly and trustingly rested upon his mother’s breast. He grew to manhood, and a change was wrought—a bitter change. The name of his Creator was often lightly and carelessly used; the lips that once lisped infant praises, now cursed the God who made him. He was often to be seen in the haunts of vice and wickedness.

Again I saw him—another change; he was stretched upon his dying bed; a smile of heavenly joy lit his pallid countenance. Wife and children had gathered around to receive his last blessing, liaising his feeble voice he said: “Mourn not for me. I am going home, to dwell with my Saviour who died for me. Mourn not, I say, but join me in the land of love and peace !”— and with a heavenly smile he bade adieu to earth. Time, indeed, effects a change.

Brooklyn, 1857.