THOUG HITS
ON TH9. 
DEATHII OF LITTLE CHILDREN.
BY SAMIUEL IRENeUS PRIME, D.D.
WITII AN APPENDIX SELECTED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS.
NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION.
NEW-YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,
770 BROADWAY, CORNER OF NINTH STREET.
1865.
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Entere-, acording to the Act of Congrcss, tn tho
yewr 1865, by
(Auson 30. if. Uanboltb,
In the Clork's Office of the Southern District of New-York,
Jott I. Gma,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
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CON  T E N  T S.
Ctapter i.
THE CIHILD IS DEAD......................................9
CAN I BRING HIM BACK AGAIN?.......................+.. 25
Chapter rein.
lIE IS NOT LOST, THOUGH GONE......................... 29
(5apter IES.
1NFINITE WISDOM TOOK HIM AWAY.............34
INFINITE LOVE CALLED THE CHILD................... 37
bapter YL.
TIIE CHILD IS HAPPIER NOW..................43
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Cbapter FEE.
PAGE
WE SHALL SEE HIm AG AIN,................................. 48
Cbapter YEI,.
A LETTER FROI A FRIEND.................................. 51
Capter 3E.
TWO YEARS IN HIIEAVEN,.....................................57
Cbapter 3.
AFTER YEARS.............................................60
Captcr TD.
A GERMAN MOTHER........................................65
hymns anbr 3ocms.
THE DYING CHILD......................................... 63
SUSPIRIA,...................6................65
BEREAVEMENT............................................66
ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT................67
THE EARLY LOST............................70
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS................71
THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN ON CHANTREY'S MONU
MENT...........................................73
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD....................75
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT..................76
MINE EARTHLY CHILDREN ROUND ME BLOOMS........78
THE CIIILD AND DEATH,........................ 80
TIIE DYING CHI     LD............................82
WILLY,....................................83
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RES[GNING,............................................8
A SUNBEAM3 AND A SHADOW............................ 5
TIlE DYING BOY.............................86
LITTLE BESSI........................................... 89
THE NEW YEAR'S EVE......................................92
THE RETUILRN OF SPRING................................... 96
HOW PEACEFULLY.......................................100
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD,..........102
THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE,........................103
CASA'S DIRGE............................................. 107
ARMENIA................................................111
OUR BABY,................................113
A HOUSEHOLD LAMENTATION,.............................115
AND ONE IS NOT............................117
SONNET-"OFT HAVE I THOUGHT".......................118
THE CHILDREN AT THE GOLDEN GATES,...............119
THE GOOD SHEPHERD,.........................120
RESIGNATION.......................................... 122
BEREAVEMENT,..............................125
THE STAR AND THE CHILD.....................128
ANGEL CHARLEY..........................................19
"MOTHER, SING'JERUSALEM,'".................132
EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED...................134
TIHE ETERNAL GAIN,..........................137
EPITAPH IN TIlE CHURCHI-YARD OF HERNE............138
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A DEATH-BED, (ALDRICH,)......................139
rHE DEATH-BED, (HOOD,)..................................139
MINISTERING ANGEL..........................141
CEASE TO WEEP.............................142
OUR ELDEST BORN...........................143
"GOD LOOKED AMONG HIS CHERUB BAND,"............145
WE ARE SEVEN..............................146
rHE SAFETY OF THE INFANT DEAD...................... 149
THE SPIRIT'S SONG OF CONSOLATION...................151
EPITAPH ON A CHILD...................................153
THE MASTER'S CALL...........................154
ENTERING IN,................................ 155
THE WINNING SHEPHERD.................................156
FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE,......................................15T
OUR BABY..................................................160
BABY LOOKING OUT FOR DIE,..............................162
MY DARLING'S SHOES,..................................... 164
ONLY A YEAR................................................ 166
FAIRY TALES........................8.........
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Otcatt) of  littte Citt)tbren.
CHAPTER -I.
Lrie CDtb    is Ucabr
IT is hard to believe it: that we shall no
more hear the glad voice, nor meet the merry
laugh that burst so often from its glad heart.
Child as it was, it was a pleasant child, and
to the partial parent there are traits of loveliness that no other eye may see.  It was a
wnise ordering of Providence that we should
love our own children as no one else loves
them, and as we love the children of none
besides. And ours was a lovely child.
But the child is dead.  You may put away
its playthings.  Put them where they will be
safe.  I would not like to have them broken
or lost; and you need not lend them to other
children when they come to see us.  It would
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pain me to see them in other hands, much as
I love to see children happy with their toys.
Its clothes you may lay aside; I shall often
look them over, and each of the colors that
he wore will remind me of him as he looked
when he was here.  I shall weep often when
I think of him;  but there is a luxury in
thinking of the one that is gone, which  I
would not part with for the world.   I think
of my child now, a child always, though an
angel among angels.
The child is dead.   The eye has lost its
lustre.  The hand is still and cold.  Its little
heart is not beating now.  How pale it looks!
Yet the very form is dear to me.   Every
lock of its hair, every feature of the face, is
a treasure that I shall prize the more, as the
months of my sorrow come and go.
Lay the little one in his coffin. IHe was
never in so cold and hliard a bed, but he will
feel it not.  Hie would not know it, if he had
been laid in his cradle, or in his mother's
arms.  Throw a flower or two by his side:
like them he withered.
Carry him out to the grave.  Gently.  It
is a hard road this to the grave.  Every jar
seems to disturb the infant sleeper.  Here we
are, at thle brink of the sepulchre.  Oh, how
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damp, and dark, and cold! But the dead do
not feel it. There is no pain, no fear, no
weeping there. Sleep on now, and take your
rest!
Fill it up! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!
Every clod seems to fall on my heart. Every
smothered sound from the grave is saying,
Gone, gone, gone! It is full now. Lay the
turf gently over the dear child.   Plant a
myrtle among the sods, and let the little one
sleep among  the trees and flowers.   Our
child is not there.  Hiis dust, precious dust,
indeed, is there, but our child is in heaven.
He is not here; he is risen.
I shall think of the form that is mouldering
here among the dead; and it will be a mournful comfort to come at times, and think of the
child that was once the light of our house,
and the idol-ah! that I must own the secret
of this sorrow-the idol of my heart.
And it is beyond all language to express
the joy, in thle midst of tears, I feel, that my
sin, in making an idol of the child, has not
made that infant less dear to Jesus. Nay,
there is even something that tells me the
Saviour called the darling from me, that I
might love the Saviour more when I had one
child less to love. He knoweth our frame;
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he knows the way to win and bind us.  Dear
Saviour, as thou hast my lamb, give me too a
place in thy bosom.  Set me as a seal on thy
heart.
And now let us go back to the house.  It
is strangely changed.  It is silent and cheerless, gloomy even.   When did I enter this
door without the greeting of those lips and
eyes, that I shall greet no more?  Can the absence of but one produce so great a change
so soon? When one of the children was away
on a visit, we did not feel the absence as
we do now.  That was for a time; this is for
ever.  Hie will not return.  Hark! I thought
for a moment it was the child, but it was only
my own heart's yearning for the lost.  iHe
will not come again.
Such  thoughts as these have  been  the
thoughts of many in the season of their first
grief.
As heart answereth to the heart, there is a
wondrous likeness in the sorrow of parents
over the death of their little ones.  The rich
and the poor, the learned and the ignorant
are alike, when they sit by the side of their
babes in the struggles of death; and when
they follow thiem to the grave, their hearts are
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true to nature, and nature mourns when t
loved are torn away.
One of the iron sort of men, a man of w
sent for me to come and see him in his affl
tion.  His child, a sweet girl of three or fo
years only, had been taken with the crou
and died before medical relief could be c
tained.  Hie met me in his hall, and fell 
my neck, and wept like a child.   I h
never seen him weep before.   I had nev
thought that such a man as he had tears
shed.  And I do not know that he wou
have wept, hlad the pestilence or the swo
swept off all the rest of those whom he love
and spared the infant that nestled in 1
bosom.
If this is a weakness to those who ha
never tasted the cup, I am sure that none
them will be offended with these words, f
they will not read them till they are weepin
too.  To be a brother in sorrow, you ml
have suffered.  Even the Lord of heaven h
to become a man, that he might, by his exe
rience, learn to bear our sorrows. And the
he wept with those who wept.
Some time ago I was at the funeral of t
child of a pastor; and when the neighborin
minister, who had been called upon to bur
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his brother's child, had closed his words of
sympathy and comfort, the stricken father
rose and said: " When I have sought to minister to your consolation in the times of your
affliction, weeping with you over your dying
children, you have often said to me that I
knew nothling of the anguish, and could not
sympathize with you in your loss. I feel it
now. I never did before." And then he
pointed them to the sources of comfort that
God was opening to his soul, and asked them
to come to the fountain and drink.  The
house in which we were then assembled stood
on a hill-side, overlooking a beautiful river,
and, on the other side of it, "sweet fields
stood drest in living green." The pastor went
on to say-andl there was a strange power and
beauty, too, in the words as they fell from his
lips in the midst of tears-" Often, as I have
stood on the borders of this stream, and
looked over to the fair fields on the other
shore, I have felt but little interest in the
people or the place in full view before me.
The river separates me from them, and my
thoughts and affections were here. But a few
months ago, one of my children moved across
to the other side, and took up his residence
there. Since that time, my heart has been
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there also.  In tihe morning, wihen I rise and
look out toward the east, I think of my child
who is over  there, and  again and  again
through the day I think of him, and the
other side of the river is always in my
thoughts with the child who is gone there to
dwell.  And now, since another of my children has crossed the river of death, and has
gone to dwell on the othler side, my heart is
drawn out toward heaven and the inhiabitants of heaven as it was never drawn before.
I supposed that heaven was dear to me; that
my Father was there, and my friends were
there, and that I had a great interest in heaven, but I had no child there!  Now I have;
and I never think and never shall think of
heaven, but with the memory of that dear
child who is to be among its inhabitants for
ever."
It was a beautiful and impressive illustration.  The heart of the father was soothed by
thoughts like these.  iHe loved to look away
to heaven, and think of it as the abode of his
child, a seraph now, happier far than he could
be in this vale of tears, and happier than he
would ever have been, had he lived to grow
up to manhood, to die in sin.
The Rev. Dr. Pye was called to part with
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two children, a son and a daughter. A few
days afterwards, he wrote a letter as if it had
come from the girl just after she had ceased
to breathe, and a little before her brother's
death.  Here is an extract from the letter
which he supposes his child to write:
"It was he who made us that called us
away, and we cheerfully obeyed  the summons; and I must now tell you, though you
already know it, that he expects from you not
only that you meekly and calmly submit to
such a seemingly severe dispensation of his
providence, but that you also rejoice with me
in it, because it is the will and pleasure of our
divine Father. I, young as I was, am now
an inhabitant of heaven, and already see the
beauty and liarmony of that little chain of
events whiclh related to my short abode in
your world, and even the manner of my leaving it; and when you see the things as they
really are, and not as they now appear, you
will confess and adore the divine goodness,
even in taking us so soon from your embraces.
"Ask not why it has pleased God so early
to remove us; we sufficiently answered the
great end of our being if, while living, at the
same time thlat we gave you pleasure, you
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were disposed to lead us, by your examples
and precepts, into the paths of virtue and religion; and if now, by the loss of us, you become examples of patience and submission to
the divine will.
"Let, therefore, all the little incidents in
our past lives, the remembrance of which is
too apt to renew your sorrow, be so many occasions of your joy, inasmuch as they may
recall the pleasant ideas you once delighted
in; and let the dismaying and melancholy
remembrance of our sickness and early death
be changed into chieering and bright ideas of
what we now enjoy, and what you, I hope,
will one day see us in possession of."
There was something very comforting ill
this thought, of the child departed sending
back a message to the mourning parent.  I
doubt not that children in heaven are astonished, if they know that their parents here,
on the earth, are grieving on their account.
"If our parents only knew what we have
gained, how  soon  they would  dry their
tears!"
The lady of Sir Stamford Raffles, in India,
was overwhelmed with grief for the loss of a
favorite child, unable to bear the sighit of her
other children, unable to bear even the light
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of day. She was lying upon her couch, with
a feeling of desolation that was fast growing
into despair, when she was addressed by a
poor, ignorant woman, one of the natives,
who had been employed in the nursery: "I
am comne," said the servant, "because  you
have been here many days shut up in a dark
room, and no one dares to come near you.
Are you not ashamed to grieve in this manner, when you ought to be thanking God for
having given you the most beautiful child
that ever was seen? Did any one ever see
him or speak of him without admiring him?
And, instead of letting this child continue in
this world till he should be worn out with
trouble and sorrow, has not God taken him to
heaven in all his beauty? What would you
have more?  For shame! leave off weeping,
and let me open a window."
It is not always wise to bid a mourner
"leave off weeping."   Tears are sometimes
good for the soul. That grief is very bitter
which cannot find tears. I have often wished
that they would come, and relieve this dry
and dreadful pressure on the heart.  But if
we do not cease to weep, by all means let us
open the window.  Let us have the light of
God's countenance shining upon us like the
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sun at noon.  To shut ourselves up in the
dark to brood over our sorrows, is the worst
of all remedies for grief.   To cherish our
afflictions, as if they were to be indulged, and
petted, and kept fresh as long as possible, and
as if it were wrong for us to go out into the
world, and mingle in the duties and pleasures
of social Christian life, is a sinfuli yielding to
the power of a dispensation that was  not
designed to be thus received.
The pious Flavel says- -and there is great
wisdom in these words of his-" Mourner,
whatever may be your grief for the death of
your children, it might lha ve been still greater
for their life. Bitter experience once led a
good man to say,' It is better to weep for ten
children dead, than for one living.'  Remember the heart-piercing affliction of  David,
whose son sought his life.  Your love for
your children will hardly admit of the thought
of such a thing as possible in your own case.
They appeared innocent and amiable; and
you fondly believed that, through your care
and prayers, they would have become the joy
of your hearts.  But parents much more frequently see the vices of their children than
their virtues.  And even should your children prove amiable and promising, you might
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live to be the wretched witness of their sufferings. Some parents have felt unutterable
agonies of this kind. God may have taken
the lamented objects of your affection from
the evil to come."
A mother, suddenly convinced that her
child was dying, sent for a man of God to
come and pray for the child's life.  "Shall I
not pray," said he, "that the will of the Lord
may be done, and that you may have strength
to suffer all that holy will?"   "No," she
answered in the agony of her heart, "no, no!
I want my child to live. Pray for his life, or
do not pray at all." The child lived, and
lived to be a man, a great man; but oh, how
wicked! and to pierce that mother's heart
with pangs of anguish which made that night
almost a night of joy, when she would not
let her infant die. WVe do not know from
what our infants are saved, when they are
saved from draining the cup of life.
"In another life," says Fenelon, "we shall
see and understand the wonders of His goodness that have escaped us in this; and we
shall rejoice at what has made us weep on
earth.  Alas! in our present darkness, we
cannot see either our true good or evil.  If
God were to gratify our desires, it would be
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our ruin.  He saves us by breaking the ties
that bind us to earth.  We complain because
God loves us better than we know how to love
ourselves. NVe weep because he has taken
those whom we love away from temptation
and sin. God takes the poisonous cup from
our hands, and we weep as a child weeps
when its mothler takes away the shilining weapon with which it would  pierce its own
breast.
"Oh! consider, ere you accuse Providence
for the stroke, that this death, apparently so
untimely, is possibly the greatest instance
toward you both of the mercy and love of
God.  The creature so dear to you may have
been taken from some sad reverse of fortune,
or from the commission of some great crime,
which might have endangered his salvation.
To secure this, God has removed him from
temptation. The pang of separation is indeed
most bitter, yet our merciful Father does not
needlessly afflict his creatures. Hie wounds
only to heal the diseases of our souls.  Let
us, then, in the hour of our calamity, hold
fast by this conviction, and say with Job,
' Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.'
HIis mercy can be my support here, and my
recompense hereafter."
L recompense ilereafter."
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This is the spirit of Christian submission to
the will of Heaven.  With such a spirit is
the grace that says, "Even so, Father, for so
it seemeth good in thy sight." And this same
holy Fenelon was called to thle trial of his
faith.  Standing by the coffin of one whom
he most tenderly loved, and for whom  he
would most cheerfully have died a thousand
deaths, he cried:
" There he lies, and all my worldly happiness lies dead withl him.   But if the turning
of a straw would call him back to life, I
would not for ten thousand worlds be the
turner of that straw, in opposition to the will
of God."
"I have had six children," said Mr. Eliot,
"and I bless Gcd for his free grace, they are
all with Christ, or in Christ; and my mind is
now at rest concerning them.  ly desire was
that they should have served Christ on earth;
but if God will choose to have them serve him
in heaven, I have nothing to object to it. His
will be done."
Yes, I will say so likewise: His will be
done. It is the best and wisest will; and
though it does darken all my prospects, and
disappoint a thousand  cherished hopes, I
know that he who has dcne it doeth all
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things well. I can trust him for this, as I
have never trusted him yet, when his promises have failed.
"I sincerely sympathize with you," says
Dr. Erskine, to a friend who had lost an only
son, " in your heavy trial.   I have drunk
deep of the same cup; of nine sons, only one
survives. From what I repeatedly felt, I can
form an idea what you must feel.  I cannot,
I dare not say, weep not.  Jesus wept at the
grave of Lazarus, and surely he allows you
to weep. But oh, let hope and joy mitigate
your heaviness.  I know not how this shall
work for your good; but it is enough that
God knows.  Hle that said,'All things shall
work together for good to them that love
God,' excepts not from this promise the sorest
trial.  You devoted your son to God; you
cannot doubt that he accepted the surrender.
If he has been hid in the chamber of the
gTave from the evil of sin and from the evil
of suffering, let not your eye be evil, when
God is good.  What you chiefly wished for
him, and prayed on his behalf, was spiritual
and heavenly blessings. If the greatest thing
you wishedl for is accomplished, at the season
and in the manner Infinite Wisdom saw best,
refuse not to be comforted. You know not
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whlat work and what joy have been waiting
for him in that other world."
An old tomb-stone bears this epitaph, and
one might think an angel whispers it to a
mourning mother's ear:
" Weep not, my mother, weep not; I am blest,
But must leave heaven, if I come to thee;
For I am where the weary are at rest,
The wicked cease from troubling. Conome to me."
I know there are thousands of hearts that
will read these chapters, not with sympathy
only, but with comfort and sacred peace.
There is scarcely a house in the world, into
which the sorrow has not come which follows
the death of a child.  It is almost literally
true
"There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there;
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair."
The child is dead.  Our child is dead.  Let
us now go to the book of God, and learn its
lessons in the time of our affliction.
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CHAPTER II.
otait S brtiti   Dim ta rt atta?
THE child of David, the bard and king, was
dead.  His son, his favorite son, his precious,
well-beloved, best-beloved son, was dead. For
seven long, anxious days and nights, while the
scale trembled in suspense, he had fasted and
wept. Kings' children die:
"             Death, with impartial fate,
Knocks at the palace door and cottage gate."
The crown often rests on an aching head, and
the royal purple covers a sad heart, when the
messenger of the grave steals into the king's
chamber, and stops the breath of his babes.
It is so in ours.
The kind attendants of the stricken father
reasoned wisely, as they reason who do not
understand the power of true religion.  They
said among themselves: He was weeping and
praying while the child was yet alive; how he
will vex himself, how much greater will be
his anguish, now the child is dead!
They mistook the man.  Tney judged him
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by their own standard, and were wrong. The
pious father drew from a deeper fountain, and
found waters they knew not of.  He reasoned
on other principles than those which lie on
the surface of things, and he was strengthened.
He saw the servants whispering, and thiought
it was probably all over with the child.  It
was a sign that death was in the house, when
even the servants would not speak above their
breath.  The dead cannot hear, but the living
are still when death is at hand.
And David asked, "Is the child dclead?"
And they answered, "He is dead."
Then David arose from  the earth, and
wvashled and anointed himself, and changed
his apparel, and came into the house of the Lord,
AND WORSHIPPED.
Then he came to his own house, and when
he required, they set bread before him, and
he did eat. And the servants were filled with
wonder that a father thus stricken with grief
should so suddenly find comfort in his sorrow;
and they said unto him,
" What thing is this that thou hast done?
Thou didst fast and weep for the child while
it was alive but when the child was dead,
thou didst arise and eat bread."
And David answered, "W vlhile thie child was
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!
yet alive, I fasted and wept; for 1 said,'Wlvho
can tell whether God will be gracious to me,
that the child may live?' But now he is dead,
wherefore should I fast?  Can I bring him
back again?   I shall go to hiim, but he shall
not return to me."
"Chti  I br    Ing hi   back again?"   A  sad
inquiry.   Can I bring hlim baclk again? Not
Wo?(Tf I?  Perhaps he would.  Perhaps we
would.  But c.a  I?  Had tears availed to
save, the clhild would not have died.  Had
prayer prevailed, thle boy would yet be living,
the joy of his parents' hearts, and the light of
their eyes.   But he is dead.  Hie is gone.
Could human skill avert the deathl-blow, he
would have been saved. But all was done
that skill could do, and yet he died.  And
there he lies.  Can I bring him to life again?
I may weep, but my tears fall on his icy
brow, and he feels them not.  Hiis heart is
still.  He breathes no more.   The love and
wit of men are alike in vain to restore the
spirit of this lifeless clay. Speak to it, and it
hears not. Kiss it, and its lips are cold. Press
it to your bosom, and it is not warmed. The
child is dead, dead; and can I bring it back
again? Ahli, if I could! If rivers of waters
running, down  my eyes, if oceans of tear;
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would float his spirit back to this deserted
shell that once was animated with his precious
soul, I would weep day and night for my
departed.
But it is fruitless. And it is not the part
of a rational being to expend the energies of
his nature on that which avails him nothing.
This may be tile least and lowest source of
comfort that reason offers to a mind distressed,
but it is the dictate of wisdom, and grace adds
its sanctions to the conclusion forced upon us
by the law of nature.  It is the will of God,
and we  cannot change the purpose if we
would.
We cannot bring him back again. TlIen
and therefore let us lay his ashes in their kindred dust, close the green turf over his mouldering form, and turn to the book of God for
consolation in the day of our calamity.
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CIIAPTER III.
ti not  lost,  td   gone.
IT is clearly revealed that God employs the
spirits whom he has made, to minister unto
those whom he delights to tend with peculiar
care.  AWith tihe mode of angelic or spiritual
intercourse, we are not acquainted.   That
disembodied spirits, the evfl and the good, are
permitted to reach our minds and exert a
power on our spirits, is not to be doubted,
though we may be unable to respond to that
influence, and, at the moment of its communication, may be unconscious of its presence.
"Millions of spiritual beings walk the earth
unseen, both when we wake and when we
sleep." And we believe, with many others,
that if we were suddenly divested of this
mortal, we should find ourselves in a vast
amphitheatre, reaching to the throne of God,
filled with spirits, the unseen witnesses, the
clouds of witnesses with whom we are encompassed continually.  There is a place where
the Most Hiigi dwells in light that no man
can approach, where the darkness of exces
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sive brightness hangs over and. around His
throne, making ileaven, as Hieaven is not
elsewhere in the universe of God.    But
neither time nor place may with propriety be
affirmed of spiritual existence. When Gabriel
leaves his throne to execute the high behests
of the Almighty, there is no intervening time
or space between his departure and his presence, where his work is to be done. We use
the terms that are adapted to our mode of
existence, and are lost when we attempt to
express the life of those whose nature is in
another scale and order of beings than our
own. It is, therefore, scriptural and rational
to suppose that the spirits of our departed
friends are around us by day and night; not
away from God: his presence fills immensity;
he is every where present. If an angel or
the soul of a saint should take the wings of
the morning, and dwell in the uttermost part
of the sea, there to be with us or with those we
love, even there the gracious presence of God
would dwell, and the sanctified would find
Heaven as blessed and glorious as in the
temple of which the Lamb is the light.
We must be near to one another, to see and
be seen, to hear and be heard. Our bodily
organs are of necessity restricted, and hence
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we have the impression that spirits must be
bound by the same fetters.   But this is an
illusion that vanishes, when we reflect that
speech, and sound, and sight, are attributes
belonging to spirits only to accommodate us
in our conception of communication with
them.  ThIought is the language of the soul.
Words are needed to convey that thought
through the organs of the body to another
soul. If thiere were no intervening body, I
know not that the soul has any need of words.
Sympathy is doubtless felt through  all the
spiritual world, without those channels of
intelligence that we must open and explore.
There is joy among the angels when a sinner
repents, or a saint expires, long before the
news is whispered from throne to throne,
through the palaces of the skies.  The thrill
is more than electric. It is instant and every
where in the empire of holy mind.
If, then,'there is such conscious sympathy
among the spirits of the blest, who will deny
that they, whose angels do always behold the
face of the Father, are also conversant with
those whom they have left on earth?  The
dead are with us and around us, and, though
gone, are not lost.  Wherever, in the world
of spirits, God may have fixed the habitation
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of his throne, it is right to believe that his
essential presence is every where, and his
saints are where they can be the happiest, and
best perform his high and holy will.
All this proceeds upon the doctrine, that
the souls of infants do immediately pass into
glory, when released from the prison of the
flesh.  This truth is too plainly taught in tlhe
Holy Scriptures, and is too firmly rooted in
the human heart, to be doubted.  "Of such is
the kingdom of heaven," was said by Iim
who saidcl, "SuL'er thle little children to come
unto me."  The royal prophet evidently recognized this truth, when he comforted himself
by the assurance that he should meet his
child again.   To me it has always been a
delig,lhtful truth, that these little ones are, in
gTeat kincldness, transplanted to a more congenial clime, and spared the ills that they must
meet and buffet in a world of sin. So that I
have often said, "I thank God when an infant
dlies."  But this is gratitude felt only when
the children of others die.
Yet it is a blessed thought, that when one
of our children dies in infancy, it sleeps in
Jesus. WVe are sure of one in Heaven. The
rest may grow up in sin, and die in sin, and
be lost, but one is safe.   Thanks to God, the
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lost is found, the dead is alive.  "The Lo.rd
gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blesed
be the name of the Lord."  "They only can
be said to possess a child for ever, who have
lost one in infancy.;
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CHAPTER IV'.
itft'ittZ trom  tool D im  awa-+
"\Y thioughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saithli thle Lord."
The truth of this we feel when clouds and
darkness hang around the throne.  And then
wve listen again, and the same voice adds,
"For  as the heavens are higher than the
earth, so are my ways highler than your ways,
and my thoughts than your thoughts."
Nothing but infinite presumption would
challenge the wisdom of the divine dercees.
WVhat is man, that he should venture to doubt
that He- who knows all things from the beginning, before whlom  the future, with all its
changes, is for ever present, better understands
ilian wve whlat is the most for his glory, and
the good of his government?  Could we
behold the varied and benign results that, in
hIis providence and grace, are to be the fruit
of those events which we regard as painfully
undesirable; could we see thle glory that they
will bring eventually to Him- whose glory is
the ultimate and righteous object of all that
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is, so that around tihe death of an infant, as
around tihe fall of an empire, cluster considclerations thiat bear upon the joys of saints, and
the services of angels, and the hionor of Hiim
who sitteth in the Heavens, Godcl over all, we
vwouldcl not merely acquiesce in the di)ensesatioiz, bLt we shiould rejoice in it with joy
unspeakable.  It is often the severest portion
of our afflictions, thiat we cannot see why they
are sent upon us.   Our faith is demanded,
that we may believe where we cannot see.
"Wihat tihou knowest not now, thou shalt
know  hereafter."   "Blessed  are they who
have not seen, and yet have believed."  That
faith is grouncldedl on our knowledge that IHe
wiho orders all our ways is too wise to be
mistaken. Hiis purposes are eternal. When
this earth shall have become wearied with
rolling, and all the stars have fallen from
their places, away in the future, millions of
ages beyond the judclgment of the great day,
the death of a babe in the house will be
working out its results in the eternal purposes
of God. WVe may not see till then, perhaps
not then.  iow far off it may be, none can
tell.  Bult it is all right, and we shall findl it
to be so hereafter.  It requires no very exalted
order of fc(titt to adopt this sentiment, arind let
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th]e soul lie down on it confidingly, and look
up trustingly, and smile serenely, when the
lhand of God presses heavily.
Oh, let my trembling soul be still,
hAVile darkness veils this mortal eye,
And wait thy wise, thy holy will,
Wrapped yet in tears and mystery.
[ cannot, Lord, thy purpose see,
Yet all is well, since ruled by thee.
Thus, trusting in thy love, I tread
The narrow path of duty on.
What though some cherished joys are fled 
What though some flattering dreams are gone I
Yet purer, brighter joys remain;
Why should my spirit then complain 
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CHIAPTER V.
Kniffitite   Lbe railb the (t{>t.
"LIKE as a father pitiethli his children, so
the Lord pitieth them that fear him.  For he
knowceth our frame; he remembereth that we
are dust."
The sovereignty of God we are bound, as
his creatures, to acknowledge and adore. iHe
has a right to do with his own what he will;
and wihen to this we join his wisdom, it is
easy to construct an argument that compels
submission.   So the afflicted father, whose
example is our theme, was affected when he
said, "I was dumb, I opened not my mouth,
because thou didst it."  And then he cried
out, under the same emotion, "Remove thy
stroke away from me: I am consumed by the
blow of thy hand."  This is not the highest
style of Christian confidence.  It is right; but
it is not the sweet and joyous trust of him
who rose from the earth when his child was
dead, and washed, and changed his apparel,
and went into the house of God and worshipped.  He is not only our God, he is our
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FATHIIER.   He taught us by the lips of his
Son to call him our Father; and " whom the
Lordcl lovetl, he chasteneth."  "We have had
fathers of our flesh who corrected us, and we
gave  thlem reverence; shall we  not much
rather be in subjection unto the Father of
spirits, and live? For they verily for a few
days chastened us after their own pleasure;
but he for our profit, that we mighit be partakers of his holiness."
WVe have chastened our own children. WVe
did it not in anger, much less in malice, or
with a desire to do an injury to thle one we
loved.  And when our Father's hand is laid
on us, it is surely our duty to bear in mind
that his love for his children infinitely excels
our love for those who climb on our knees
and hang on our necks.  Oh, was it not love
that gave the child; that gave us suchl a child;
that made it lovely in our eyes, clothing it
with beauty as with a garment, and shedding
upon its form and spirit those gentle, winning
ways that wound about our hearts, and rendered the object of our affections just the
child whom we would wish to keep?  We
blessed God for giving.  But it is the same
God  wlho  hliathli taken  away.   Hie never
changes.  And faith assures us thlat it is
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greater love that takes than gives.  AVas not
the lamb his owvn? And did he not gather it
to iis own bosom? If he had not loved it,
he would not have taken it.  WVas it not his
own jewel?  And did he not set it as a gem
in his own crown?  Let the thought of murmuring, be rebuked by the following beautiful story from the AIishna of the Rabbins:
"During the absence of the Rabbi M{eir,
his two sons died, both of them of uncommon
beauty, and enlightened in the divine law.
HIis wife bore them to her chamber, and laid
them upon her bed. When Rabbi Meir
returned, his first inquiry was for his sons.
His wife reached to him a goblet; he praised
the Lord at the going out of the Sabbath,
drank, and again asked,'Where are my sons?'
'They are not far off,' she said, placing food
before him that he might eat. Hie was in a
genial mood, and when he had said grace after
meat, she thus addressed him:' Rabbi, with
thy permission, I would fain propose to thee
one question.''Ask it then, my love,' replied
he.'A few days ago, a person intrusted
some jewels to my custody, and now he
demands them; should I give them back to
him?''This is a question,' said the Rabbi,
'which my wife should not have thought it
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necessary to ask.  What! wouldst thou hesitate or be reluctant to restore to every one
his own?''No,' she replied,'but yet I
thought it best not to restore them without
acquainting thee therewith.'   She then led
him to the chamber, and, stepping to the bed,
took the white covering from the dead bodies.
'Ah! my  sons, my  sons,' loudly lamented
their father.'My sons! the light of my eyes,
and the light of my understanding: I was
your father, but you were my teachers in the
law.'   The mother turned away and wept
bitterly.  At length she took her husband by
the hand and said,'Rabbi, didst thou not
teach me that we must not be reluctant to
restore that which was intrusted to our keeping?  See; the Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken away, and blessed be the name of the
Lord.''Blessed be the name of the Lord,'
echoed the Rabbi,'and blessed be his holy
name for ever."'
WVe should esteem it a mark of honor and
peculiar regard, if the king should chloose one
of our children to be taken into hlis family,
and trained for the throne.   There are thousands of little children besides ours, whom
God might have taken, if he had been pleased;
but he loved ours so much, and loved us so
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much, that he came into our humble household, and gently bore away fiom our arms
our infant child, and took him into his own
family, and placed him among the brightest
and best, and made him a king.   There is
love in that-precious love-a Father's love.
There is love in thus chastising us when we
-wander, and tie would draw us backl. I have
seen a shepherd striving to drive his flock
into the fold, while they would refuse to
enter, and prefer to run off into the highways,
where they were in danger of being torni and
lost. At length, when wearied with efforts to
urge tlieni in, he takes a lamb into his arms,
andl folds it gently in his bosom, and walks
into the inclosure, while the mother follows,
and the whole flock come on, and are soon
folded in the place of safety and peace. So
have I seen a family whom God would win
to his house and home in heaven; but they
became worldly-milnded, and wandered away
among the dangerous paths of a deceitful,
unsatisfying earth; and when his calls and
commands had been lost upon them, he has
taken their lamb, their pet lamb, their youngest child, and laid it in his own bosom; and
then, 0 then, how readily the mother and all
the little flock have followed him to the gate
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of thie celestial city, into which he has entered
with their darling in his arms!
It was love, infinite love, that ordered such
a plan; and it will be felt the more, the more
the heart is softened, and the eyes are opened
to behold the hand that does it.
"Before I was afflicted, I went astray." "It
is good for me that I have been afflicted." So
David was able to say while yet in the house
of his pilgrimage; and so shall we say, if not
now, when we come to sit down by the river
of the water of life, our children with  ns,
broken households reunited, and talk over
the trials of the way by which we have been
led, and admire  and adore  the grace that
directed the blow that laid our early hopes in
ruins, blasted our fond domestic joys, buried
our babes, and broke our heal%.
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CHAPTER VI.
Aft ebilb is Dappirr Io@+.
WE desire our children's happiness; we
pray and labor for it;  we  are willing to
make great sacrifices of our comfort to secure
it for them.  In sickness, we forget our own
health and lives for the sake of theirs.  WVe
watch them, and toil for them, and would die
for them.  We more than die for them sometimes.
And if we grieve when their happiness
calls them from us, our grief is selfish; it is
for ourselves, and not for them, we mourn.
But we should not mourn, if we knew what
he has gained whom we have lost.  Instantly
on being released from the body, the spirit of
the infant returns to God who gave it.  Endowed with capacities that, if permitted to
expand and improve on earth, would in fifty
years, perhaps, have made hiim wiser than Newton, or Plato, or Solomon, it rushes into the
mysteries of the divine Mind, and, on wings
of thoughit such as angels use in rising into
the regions of knowledge that pass all under
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standing, he begins his flight, and stretches
onward and right onward for ever. He never
tires. No weakness, no sickness, no pain, to
make him pause or falter in his upward way.
He bears himself into the presence of the
Omniscient, becomes a disciple in the school
of Christ, flies on with Mloses, and David, and
Jolin, and learns from them the wonderful
things of heaven, the mysteries of the kingdom; and thus, ever advancing, hie rises
nearer and still nearer to the comprehension
of Him who is still infinitely above and
beyond his last and loftiest reach. And what
a change is this! Yesterday, an infant in his
mother's arms, or a child amused with a rattle
or a straw; to-day, a seraph in the midst of
seraphim, burning with excessive glory in
the presence of God.
Happiness is the fruit of holiness. Washed
in the blood of the everlasting covenant, and
sanctified by the Holy Ghost, he is now
among the holy, as happy as any who are
there.  Those faculties of mind, expanded in
the atmosphere of heaven, are employed in
the praise of that grace that called him so
soon friom Nature's darkness into the glorious
light of eternity; the gloom of sini scarce shading the brightness of his rising sun, before the
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noon of heaven burst upon him. As if an
angel had lost his way, and for a few days had
wandered among the sons of men, till his
companions suddenly discovered him in this
wilderness, and caught him, and bore him off
to his native residence among the blessed; so
the child is taken kindly ii the morning of
its wanderings, and gathered among the holy,
and brought home to his Father's house. Hitow
pure his spirit now; how happy he is now!
"Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there
Around my Saviour stand;"
and among them I behold the infant forms
of those whose little graves were wet with the
tears of parental love.   I hear their infant
voices in the song.  Do you see in the midst
of that bright and blessed throng the child
you mourn? I ask not now if you would
call him back again.   I fear you would!
But I ask you, "JVI~at would tempt him back
again?    Bring out the playthings that he
loved on earth, the toys that filled his childish
heart with gladness, and pleased him on the
nursery floor, the paradise that  was ever
bright when he smiled within it; hold them
up, and ask him to throw away his harp, and
leave the side of his new-found friends, and
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the bosomn of his Saviour; and woun'd he come,
to be a boy again, to live and laugh and love
again, to sicken, suffer, die, and perhaps be
lost!  I think he would stay.   I think I
would shut the door if I saw him coming.
A father, who had buried thlie youngest of
three boys, exclaims, in words familiar:
"I cannot tell what form is his,
What look he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns
His shining seraph-brow.
"The thoughts that fill his sinless soul,
The bliss that he doth feel,
Are numbered with the secret things
Which God doth not reveal.
"But I know-for God hath told me this —
That now he is at rest,
Where other blessed infants are,
On their loving Saviour's breast.
"Whate'er befalls his brethren twain,
His bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and pain,
But his is perfect peace.
"It may be that the tempter's wiles
Their souls from bliss can sever;
But if our own poor faith fail not,
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"When we think of what our darling is,
And what he still must be;
When we think on that world's perfect bliss,
And this world's misery;
"When we groan beneath this load of sin,
And feel this grief and pain;
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two,
Than have him here again"
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We  sdall ee  Dim aq,titi
"I SHALL go to him, but he shall not
return to me."
"Shall we know our friends in heaven?"
is a question that I will not here discuss.
It is to my mind obvious that the personality of each of us is to be preserved distinetly in the world to come;  and whether
the ties that are formed on earth  are to be
reunited andl perpetuated there, or not, we
shall undoubtedly recognize the spirit allied
to our own, and that once breathed the same
vital air with us.  Those who have died in
Christ, the Saviour will bring with him; and
those who wait his appearance shall meet
those they loved, when they come in the air
with their glorified Lord.
Very true it is, that the Lamb in the midst
of the throne is the chief attraction of heaven,
and that all eyes and all hearts will turn
toward him with infinite longings that are
never satisfied.
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A pious young man, of ardent filial affeetion, buried his beloved mother, and afterwvards was frequently heard to say, that one
of the chief pleasures he anticipated in the
prospect of heaven was meeting again his
sainted mother.  But that young man, on his
death-bed, was heard to say, " It seems to me,
if I am so happy as to enter heaven, that I
shall wAish to spend a thousand years, before I
think of any thing else, in looking upon my
Saviour."
Yes, blessed Saviour; and in thy bosom
nestles the lamb from our fold. WVe cannot
look at thee, without beholding him.   WVe
cannot think of him, without remembering
thy sweet words, "Suffer the little children
to come unto me."
It is not, then, the illusion of fancy, it is
the dictate of Christian faith, to look toward
the holy city, and within its gates of pearl to
see the little one that has been taken from us,
now a pure beatified spirit, robed in celestial
beauty, withl  a crown on his head, and a
harp in his hand, beckoning us to come up
thither.
Oh!  it was sweet to hear his voice in the
glee of infancy; to feel his lips as they pressed
the fount of life, or met our owr in the kiss
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of parental love; to listen to his infant prayer,
or his gentle murmur, when we hummed the
evening lullaby.
" His presence was like sunshine,
Sent down to gladden earth;
To comfort us in all our griefs,
And sweeten all our mirth."
But he is brig-hter, fairer, happier there
and wve shall soon rejoin him in our Father'
house, a reunited family, all the more blessed
because we have been for a little while sepa
rated, and then we shall part no more for ever
This is the comfort of faith, the assurance o
hope; and when we come to sit down in the
mansions on high, with our children around
us, those children over whose early graves we
wept in bitterness, we shall be amazed  t
think how short has been the separation, and
how blessed the love that ordered the part
ing, and permitted the meeting, in the pre
senlce of God.
"Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Ilath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of wo, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tearl,
An over-payment of delight I"
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3Lttr  fronm   ff ttetr.
"M IY DEAR FRIEND: -I have just heard of
your bereavement, and hasten to offer you
my Christian sympathies.  I know, indeed,
that no creature can give you effectual comfort, nor do I propose to do for you any office
which might not be performed by the humblest servant of Christ. The sooner you look
away from earth, and set your hope in God,
the better for you. He is our buckler, and
shield, and salvation. He is a very present
help in time of trouble. Compared with our
necessities, or with God, all earthly friends
and resources are poor things.  "Cease from
man, whose breath is in his nostrils." Sometimes the very tears of our friends, by showilug us howv vain is human aid, deepen our
sorrows.
" Our heavenly Father is full of kindness,
mercy, and grace.  He does not afflict willinoly. He is a sun and shield; he will give
trace and glory; and no good thing will he
withoheld from them  that walk  uprightly. 
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'There is more comfort in one drop that distils from God, than from ten thousand rivers
that flow from creature delights.' Are you
an heir of God, and a joint-heir with Christ?
thenI'Behold what manner of love the Father
hath bestowed upon us, that we should be
called the sons of God'  Have  you not a
good Father?
"And is not Jesus the very friend you need?
To all his people he is of old a Redeemer and
Saviour.' In all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them.'
Hle says,'Let not your heart be troubled,
neither let it be afraid; ye believe in God,
believe also in me.' He well knows what sorrow means.  He has felt the keenest pangs.
He never breaks the bruised reed.  He was
sent to bind up the broken-hearted, and to
comfort all that mourn. If we suffer with
him, we shall also reign with him.  Blessed
Saviour! thou hast said,' Because I live, ye
shall live also.' At thy bidding I would bear
all things.  I had rather be with thee in a
dungeon, than with thy foes in a palace. Let
me, in my measure, fill up that which is
behind of thy sufferings. In due time thou
wilt make all things plain.   Let me but at
last be with thee, and I will rejoice in tribula 
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tion. Let my sins be surely pardoned through
thy blood, and I will yield to no fear; and
then
'Tlhe glory of my glory still shall be,
To give all glory and myself to Thee.'
" He will not leave you comfortless. It is
the very office of his Spirit to cheer  and
encourage our hearts.   How  marvellously
can this Spirit of love and of holiness chase
away our darkness! HIe giveth songs in the
night. HIe is the oil of gladness. Hiis grace,
and pity, and love are infinite, eternal, and
unchangeable.   Get the help of the Spirit,
and nothing can undo you.
"This is the very time for you to plead and
rest upon the provisions of that covenant
which is ordered in all thiings and sure, which
is both new and everlasting, which is sealed
with blood, confirmed with an oath, established upon the best of promises, and ordained
in the hands of a Mediator who cannot fail
nor be discouraged.  In this covenant is no
flaw. Under it there can be no failure. Rest
in it, yea, glory in it, and remember all it
promises and secures.
"But still you weep for your little one.
Blessed be God, it is no sin to weep. Jesus
wept.  Yet, while nature pours out her tears,
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let grace triumph.  I have long thought that
the grief of God's children for the death of
their infant offspring should be very mioderate.  The view taken of the state of such by
the best Reformed Churches, has always been
cheering. Hiear the Synod of Dort:'Seeing
that we are to judge of the will of God by
his Word, which testifies that the children of
believers are holy, not indeed by nature, but
by the benefit of the gracious covenant, in
which they are comprehended along with
their parents, pious parents ought not to
doubt of the election and salvation of their
children whom God hath called in infancy
out of this life.' And our own Confession
very clearly and delightfully states how they
are saved:'Elect infants, dying in infancy,
are regenerated and saved by Christ, through
the Spirit, who worketh when, and where,
and how he pleaseth.'  If, therefore, you still
weep, weep as one full of hope, and peace,
and comfort.
"Your present trial will furnish you with
many an occasion of showing your readiness
to perform two duties united by the Psalmist:
' Trust in the Lord, and do good.' It can hardly
be doubted that, great as your affliction is,
you can easily find others who need your
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sympathy and aid.'  Visit them; write to
them; speak comfortably to them; weep with
them; if they need it, give them alms; in
short, be as useful as you can. In watering
others, you shall be watered.   Beware of
moping over your trials.
"It is a painful but universal conviction
amoing Christians, that they need correction.
Their tempers, their tongues, their lives, their
inconstancy, all show that fewer chastisements
would leave them in a sad state.   I know
not what the Lord would accomplish in you
by this heavy stroke; but sure I am that he
would cause all things to work together for
good to them that love him. You have found
former trials good. This, too, shall yield the
peaceable fruit of righteousness.
"And as to your loved one, has not God
already clone for it more than you and all the
world could have done in a thousand years?
Hie has made it a king and a priest unto God,
to serve him day and night in heaven. If
Hannah was willing to give up Samuel to
serve in the earthly tabernacle, surely you
should be willing to resign your darling to
serve in the temple not- made with hands,
especially as you hope so soon to follow him,
and be for ever with him.
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"At most, will not all thlis darkness soon be
gone?'I eeping may endure for a nigliht,
but joy comethi in the morning.''It is but a
little while, and he that shall come will come,
and will not tarry.''Tlhe time is short.' Let
us wait patiently for him. IHis deliverances
are as seasonable as they are effectual. When
you reach the blessed home above, you will
be the first to say that God hath done all
things well.
"4And now, if the tempter should annoy and
insult you, saying God has forsaken you,
believe him not, but say,' Rejoice not against
iue, O mine enemy; when I fall, I shall arise;
when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a
light unto me.  I will bear the indignation of
the LORD, because I have sinned against him,
until he plead my cause, and execute judgment for me. HeI will bring me forthli to the
light, and I shall behold his righteousness.'
" Very truly yours,
"w V.  S. P."
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CHAPTER IX.
Ziuo Yrar5s in 74-ben.
T\vo years ago to-day he weilt to heaven.
AVitli us they have been long, long years,
si~,. we heard the sound of his swe~ct voice,
(l  the merry laug,h that burst from his glad
he~~ft.
lie was the youngest of our flock.  Three
sui-imers he had been with us, and oh! he was
brighter and sunnier than any summer day of
them all.  But he died as the third year of
his life was closing.  The others were older
than he; and all wve hliad of childhood's glee
and gladness was buried when we laid him in
the grave.  Since then our hearth has been
desolate, and our hbearts have been yearning
for the boy who is gone. "Gone, but not lost,"
wve have said a thousand times; and we think
of him ever as living and blessed in another
place not far from us.
Twao years in heaven! They do not measure tine in that world; there are no weeks,
or months, or years; but all the time we have
been mourning his absence here, he has been
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happy there.  And wlheln we think of whiat
he has been enijoyingo, and the rapid progress
he has been making, we feel that it is well for
him thlat he has been taken away.
Ttco years wtl  a),nges8!  They have been
his constant companions, his teachers too;
and from them he has drawn lessons of knowledge and of love. The cherubim are said to
excel in knowledge; while love glows more
ardently in the breasts of seraphim.  lIe has
been two years in the company of both, and
must have become very like them.
Ttco years witlh the redeemed!  They have
told him of the Saviour, in whose blood they
washed thleir robes, and whose righteousness
is their salvation.  The child, while with us,
knew little of Jesus and his dying love; but
he has heard of him now, and has learned to
love him who said, "Suffer little children to
come unto me."   There are some among
those redeemed, who would have loved him
here, had they been living with us; but they
went to glory before him, and have welcomed
him now to their company.  I am not sure
that they know him as our chlild; and yet do
we love to thilnk that he is in the arms of
thlose who have gone from our arms, and,
that thus broken families are reunited around;
the throne of God and thle Lamb.
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Ttlmo yca(s i,'i't[  Chlrist!  It is joy to linow
that our child has been two years withli the
Saviour, inli his immediate presence; learning
of him, anid making heaven vocal witli songs
of rapture andl love.   The blessed Saviour
tooli little children in his arms when he was
here on earth, andl he takes them ill his bosom
there. Blessed Jesius! blessed children  blessedl cl.ild I
lie often wept when he was with uis; he
suftifered mLuchli before he died:  seven days
and nights he was torn with fierce convulsioins ere his souli yielded and fled to heaven.
But now for twao years he has not went.  Tle
hlias lknown no pain for two years.  Thiat little
clhild, -who wvas pleased with a rattle, now
meets with angels and feels himself at home.
He walks among tlhe tallest spirits that bend
in the presence of the Infinite, and is as free
and happy as any who are there.  And when
we think of joys that are his, we are more
than willing that he should stay where he
lnow dwells, though our house is darkened by
the shadow of his grave, and our ihearts are
aching all the time for hIis return.  Long and
weary have been the years without him; but
thley have been blessed years to him in heaven.   "Even so, Father."   "i\ot our will,
but thine be done."
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CIIAPTER X.
after Years.
TWELVE years and more have passed since
the preceding pages were first published.
They have been abroad in the world on a
mission of consolation, and oh! how many
hearts have been soothed in sorrow, and comforted by the ministry of these words!
Again they are to go on their errand of
mercy. The heart from which they first
went out has found that the words of Jesus
are indeed true, "Blessed are they that mourn,
for they shall be comforted."  The Saviour
is the great healer, and he takes time to
work his sovereign cures.  He leads his followers in paths they know not, and purifies
them for himself by trials such as they would
not choose. lie prayed for himself, that if it
were possible the cup might pass from him,
but it pleased his Father that he should drink
it to the drecgs.  And if he could not be
spared, should his children murmur when 
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they are called to taste the bitter waters of
affliction?  In time, and if not in time, certainly in eternity, they will see that it is more
than good to be afflicted, and the best of all
the means employed for their sanctification
were the sorrows through which they were
called to pass.
And as these twelve years and more have
been wearing away, the sorrow that gave
birth to these pages has become a more hallowed, chastened, and gentle emotion. The
child of our affections is advancing in the
beauty and blessedness and glory of the
heavenly state, and daily becomes more at
home among the angels and saints. Others
whom we love have gone there and joined
the company of the redeemed, and we think
of our child, a child indeed, but a companion
of our departed and now glorified friends.
More and more willing are we that he should
stay where he is.  More and more do we long
to be absent from the body and present with
the Lord.
An unknown friend, in the midst of deep
personal affliction, heard the following sentenrces fall from the lips of Rev. Dr. P. D.
Gurley, in his pulpit in Washington City,
and when I learned how full of consolation 
62
and truth they were, I asked the privilege of
repeating them here.
It is God who has taken your loved one
iaway.  It was not an enemy that did it, but
friecnd; not an erring mortal, but He who
sles the end from the beginnaing, and doeth
all things  well. Bow at his feet, and say with
him who lost his possessions, his servants,
and ALL his CHILDREN in a single day, "The
Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away."'
Acklnowlecldge, with unreserved submission,
that he has taken but what he gave; that he
has only asserted his right as a sovereign,
allnd done what he would with his own.  Nay
more, confide in his wisdom, confide in his
faithfulness, confide in his love.  The hour
of sorrow is the time for faith to take her
boldest flight and achieve her brightest victory.  Let her soar above the clouds to the
eternal sunshine beyond, the sunshine of a
Father's mercy.  Perhaps I should rather
say, Let her fix her eye upon the bright bow
of promise that spans the clouds, and hear
the voice that comes down through the darkness and says in words of parental counsel
and tenderness: "M ay son, despise not thou
the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when
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thiou it rebuoked of him; for whomI the Lord
lovethl, lie chastenetli."  It is tlhe voice of
your heavenlyv, Father, nay more, of your lecdeemer andcl your God.  Let it hushi every
murmurinig thought, quiet every rebellious
feeling, and call out iqom your very souls
that submissive andc memorable utterance of
the Saviour:  "Even so, Father, for so it
seems good in tliy sight."  " lIe maketh sore
and biindeth up; he woundeth, andcl his hands
make whlole."  Ile has smitten, not to repel
you, but to dclraw you nearer to himself.
And howv must you approach him?  Not
merely to acklnowledge his hadcl, his sovereignty,v his wvisdom, and his faithfulness;
not merely to supplicate his assistance and
hlis mercy; but to worship and to bless him.
Oh! this is the highilest triumph of faith and
piety-to look up from thle depths of affliction, and say not merely,  "The Lord gave
and the Lord hath taken avway"-that may be
but a cold and heartless acknowledgmeintbut "Blessed be the name of the Lordcl;" let
him be praised for this very dclealing.  I needecd it, an,d he, in his loving kindness, has ordered it for my goord.  Ilere is tlhe point to
whlichl your redeeming God wvould bring you.
Ilave you reachedl it yet?  If not, tlhen pray,
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and pray very earnestly, that you may not
fail to reach it; for that is the point where
trial accomplishes its perfect work, and secures for those  who  are exercised tlereby
"a far more exceeling and eternal weighlt of
glo, y."
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CHAPTER XI.
21 German Dotter.
A  SMITTEN  household  in  Germany  is
brought to our sight in this letter from the
husband and father.  It is highly wrought,
but the mother, crushed under the sudden
and great sorrow, sees the Saviour and finds
peace in leaving her child in his bosom.
Blessed trust I
"My wife trembled all over, and sat down
with the child in her arms. 0 God! that
can not be true. HIe will not punish us so
cruelly; oh! pray, do pray that he will spare
us the child. I took our Prayer-Book and
sat down beside the dull lamp. I began, half
weeping, to read a prayer for the sick, and
read devotionally.'Ah! not so, Peter, not
so,' she said,' that is of no use, there is nothing about our child in it; pray to him to
spare her.' I turned to another prayer and
read yet more devotionally.'Ah! that is no
good; pray out of yourself whatever comes
into your head, only about the child!' I
rose up from the lamp, my heart full of
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anguish, anguish about the child, anguishl
that I could not pray.  I never had prayed
outt of my own heart.  Then, in her agony,
my wife fell upon her knees, and called upon
God.  0 Father! leave us the child, do not
take it back again; it shall be thine, shall ibe
our angel and thine, shall be the Saviour's
own through all eternity.  We will carry it
in our hands as thy precious gift; will trouble
no more, but will bear all humbly and patiently that thou dost send us; will look for
only good from thee.  But the child, the
child! do not take it; leave it for thy Son's
sake.'  Fervently she looked upward, the
tears streaming over her face, the child in her
arms pressed close to her heart. It moved,
and as Mladeli looked down, it stretched its
little limbs once more, opened its eyes full
upon its mothler, a smile passed over its little
face, and then the eyes slowly closed. The
smile seemed to wing its way like a little
angel from the face, and with it the spirit of
the child had departed too! Its body moved
no more; its eyes were shut for ever!  The
mother lookel up fuill of reproach to heaven;
the convulsion that had left the heart of the
child seemed now to have fastened upon hers.
Sobbing violently, she bent over the corpse,
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seeking for life.  When she found no sign,
she tottered to the bed, laid the body upon
it, and throwing herself over it, was so overcome with anguish that the bed shook under
her. Grief seized me, too, as with an iron
clutch; but the state of my wife roused me
from my stupor. I tried to speak with her,
but the convulsion would allow no answer,
and I feared each minute that she must be
suffocated. At last I succeeded in laying her
on the bed, and calming her with water.
She would not have the little body moved
from her arms, but lay back, silently motioning me to be still, and not torment her with
speaking
" The first beams of the morning found me
faint and half-asleep upon a chair; a calm,
earnest gaze welcomed them from the bed, as
they fell upon Madeli's folded hands and
upon the golden curls of our living child.  I
awoke from my sad dreams, and went out
into the kitchen to prepare something warm
for us after the night of weeping.  But Madeli held me fast, begging me not to go, she
had something to say to me. She could not
describe to me'what she had felt when she
first knew the child to be dying in her arms.
For the first time in her life the fountain of 
68
prayer seemed to be opened within her, and
she poured out her soul to the Father in heaven. She felt a strength in her heart as
though, if she had asked for a kingdom, that
Father must give it her! And when she had
finished, the child was dead.
"Then she felt as though a burning hand
tore her heart from her body, as though a
thousand mountains were hurled down upon
her breast, as though an unfathomable abyss
opened to swallow her in infinite darkness.
Her faith was gone.'There is no God,' a
voice thundered in her heart. An eternal
nothingness stared her in the face with nnutterable horror. She clung to the little body
that she, too, might become a corpse, and lose
consciousness, since man was nothing but a
growing corpse, with no God, no living eternity, only an everlasting grave. No one can
picture to themselves that terrible sensation,
when one thinks one has clung firmly, lovingly to heaven, and is seized, as though by
a sudden madness, that there is no God, and
every pulse echoes to us the cry:' There is no
God; your faith is vain!''For a long time,'
said Madeli,  IIdid not know if I was alive
or dead.  I thought nothing: I could only
suffer. Gradually consciousness seemed to
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return, but for very long I could not find
God.'
'At length it seemed to iher as though a
little spark arose, glimmering faintly, giving
out very little light; and in the gleam of this
light she saw again that smile of her child
which haLd hovered over its face before it left
us.  Again the child seemed to live, and to
smile at some one with tenderness and trust.
Up out of the darkness came a form lovely
and tender to look upon, to whom the child
held out its arms.  The figure took the child
on its arm, putting its hand on its head. The
child's face seemed to become glorified: it
was as though wings waved from its shoulders, and its eyes turned to the mother, joyful and sparkling like carbuncles! Instantly
Madeli saw that it was the Saviour who held
and blest her child, and as she thought it, he
raised his finger, as though to say,'Woman,
if thou hadst had faith!' and in that hand
she saw the marks of the nails, and thought
how he, too, had known great sorrow, and
had prayed,'Father, if it be possible, let this
cup pass from me, yet not my will but thine
be done;' and the cup of sorrow did not pass
fromn him: he drank it to the last drop, and
he rose again the third day, as a sign that
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therle is c F:Lttller ill heaveln who can hear and
bless obedience.  And as she thought that,
the lig'llt g,rew larger, and glowed like the sun,
and the two forms became more heavenly,
and looked at her with increasing tenderness.
It was as though whole beams of love penetrated her heart, and in a splendor which her
eyes could not bear, the Saviour and the
child both vanished away.
"By degrees she became convinced that the
death of the childcl was not a punishment, but
a voice from God.  And as God had so highly honored her as to call her through a little
angel, she would remain consecrated to him;
and she thought she should be able. Thus
was my wife made holy through the child,
who became to her an angel, and who
stretched out to her its little hand across the
threshold which separates the earthly heart
from God; but the angel drew with angelic
power, andcl the mother passed the threshold
and walked with God; that is, she purified
herself to a holy teminple, and fulfilled every
duty in' his name, and loved all in his love,
and judged no one herself, but gave them
over to the judgment of Him who says,'I
will repay.'"
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ERRATA.
The additions to this volume consist of about ten new
pages of prose matter, and fifteen of poetry: the printer,
however, neglected to repage the volume beyond the first
70 pages, and pages 61 to 70 are repeated at the beginning
of the poetical selections. 
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I ssae that "one is not" in your household, and that you have
learned what that Scripture meaneth, "and so death came by sin."
Death is a stern teacher, but I trust that you have found new and
precious experiences in this new road which you have been called
to travel. Count it no strange thing, for this is the King's highway,
over which all the ransomed pass. There is not a house where there
has not been one dead; and if your house be desolate, let your heart
be full of glad thanksgivings that it is " the Lord who gave, and the
Lord who has taken away."  You have now new attractions in the
eternal world to draw your hearts thither. Every thing is moving on
to higher conditions, and your own hearts should be constantly going
upwards. May God give you grace, and fill you with his peace!
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VUIU,5 arb  loam-.
ebe 3tig  potty.
INSCRIBED TO MR. AND MRS. S. I. PRIME, ON THh
DEATH OF THEIR YOUNGEST SON.
How calm, how beautiful he lies!
'Neath drooping fringes shine his eyes,
Like stars in half eclipse;
As sunlight falls his wavy hair,
Across that noble brow, so fair,
That the blue veins seem penciled there,
And curved by Art those lips.
No quivering of the lid or chin
Betrays the final strife within;
So noiseless sinks his breath,
That if those cheeks did not disclose
Life's current in the tint of rose
That, like a bright thought, comes and goes,
This would seem beauteous death.
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Already is the stain of earthThe stamp of his terrestrial birth       Changing for heaven's pure seal:
The angel's beauty now I see
Pledged in that sweet serenity;
And that unearthly smile to me
God's signet doth reveal.
But even here his guileless lifeHis path with only flowerets rife       Almost a cherub's seemed:
He knew no change from light to shade,
His soul its own glad sunshine made;
Where'er he paused, where'er he strayed,
Light all around him beamed.
If such hath been his life's first dawn,
Oh, what will be the glorious morn
Just opening on his soul!
Favored of leaven! to wear the crown,
Life's weary race to thee unknown,
And sit with laureled conquerors down,
Who toiled to reach the goal.
But fading is that roseate hue;
And now cold pearly drops bedew
. That brow of heavenly mould;
Fainter and fainter grows his breath:
Ah, now'tis gone! Can this be death?
Oh, what so fair the heavens beneath,
So lovely to behold!
Y7ewark, October 29, 1849.. C. 
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TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own.!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone 
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!
Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dust!
Los GFELI,OW.
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FI
NAY, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead;
He lives again in heaven's unclouded life,
With other angels that have early fled
From the dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife;
Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love
Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers,
And e'en deny to brighter realms above
The few that deck this dreary world of our3s.
Though much it seems a wonder and a woe
That one so loved should ba so early lost,
And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow
To mourn the blossom that we cherished mostYet all is well: GoD's good design I see,
That where our treasure is, our hearts may be!
JOIIN G. SAXE.
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33ereabcnmtnt. 
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On  -%ccng a Drccascbr Knfant.
AND this is death! How cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,
And yet too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek has lost its roselike red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.
But when I see the fair, wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never looked so fair as now
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel
That need not, cannot be suppressed.
I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim;
That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended withI the funeral hymn:
The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies;
And Heaven would scorn the frozen heart
That melts not when the infant dlies.
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And yet why mourn? That deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For thiink not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the churchyard sod;
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the Paradise of God.
Once more I gaze, and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly;
I see thee, like a new-born star,
Move up thy pathway in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unifading and divine.
Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead:
Thrice happy, that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin;
And only breathed life's morning airs,
Before its noonday storms begin.
Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet.
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But no; that look is not the last:
WVe yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
VWhere love no more deplores the past,
Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell.
WV. O. B. PEABODY.
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FPe 7arb lost.
WIIEN the soft airs and quickening showers
Of spring-time make the meadows green,
And clothe the sunny hills, with flowers,
And the cool hollows scooped between,
Ye go, and fondly bending where
The bloom is brighter than the day,
Ye pluck the loveliest blossom there
Of all that gem the rich array.
The stem, thus robbed and rudely pressed,
Stands desolate in the purple even;
The flower has withered on your breast,
But given its perfume up to heaven.
When, mid our hopes that waken fears,
And mid our joys that end in gloom,
The children of our earthly years
Around us spring, and bud, and bloom,
An angel from the blest above
Comes down amnong them at their play,
And takes the one that most we love,
And bears it silently away:
Bereft, we feel the spirit's strife;
But while the inmost soul is riven,
Our dear and beauteous bud of life
Receives immortal bloom in heaven.
W. D. GALLAGHER.
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re    aJaper ant t~~ CroWds.
THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen
Hle reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowvers that grow between.
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he,
" Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me.
I will give them all back again."
He gazed on the flowers with tearful eyes,
Hie kissed their drooping leaves:
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
- "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
"They all shall bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;
And saints upon their garments white
These sacred flowers wear."
And the mother gave, with tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
But she knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.
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Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.
LONGFELLOW.
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Ee  mttlturcTt t            on trrIt~l.
IUDIxTummet at AIttrbeIfflr
FAIR images of sleep!
Hallowed, and soft, and deep;
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells
Of flowers in mossy dells,
Filled with the hush of night and summer skies.
Iow many hearts have felt
Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
Hiow many sudden tears,
From depths of buried years,
All freshly bursting, have confessed your sway!
How many eyes will shed
Still, o'er your marble bed,
Such drops, from Memory's troubled fountain
wrung!
While Hope hath blights to bear,
While Love breathes mortal air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung.
Yet, from a voiceless home,
If some sad mother come
To bend and linger o'er your lonely rest,
To bend and linger o'er your lonely rest,
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As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the soft breathing low
Of babes, that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercing to return;
If for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink,
Send fiom your calm profound
A still, small voice, a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink.
By all the pure, meek mind
Of your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die       O'er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The Faith, Trust, Light o0 Immortality!
MRS. HIEMANS.
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En tbc UratD of a ~Cilb.
As the sweet flower that scents the morn,
But withers in the rising day,
Thus lovely seemed the infant's dawn,
Thus swiftly fled his life away.
Ere sin could blight or soirow fade,
Death timely came with firiendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it bloom for ever there.
Yet the sad hour that took the boy
Perhaps has spared a heavier doom,
Snatched him firom scenes of guilty joy,
Or from the pangs of ills to come.
Hle died before his infant soul
Had ever burned with wrong desire,
iHad ever spurned at ieaven's control,
Or madly quenched its sacred fire.
IHe died to sin, he died to care,
But for a moment felt the rod;
Then, springing on the noiseless air,
Spread his light wings, and soared to God.
BELFAST SELECTION OF HYMNS.
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Oi the Deatb -of all Entalnt.
WHY dost thou weep? Say, can it be
Because, for ever blest, and free
From sin, from sorrow, and from pain,
Thy babe shall never weep again;
Shall never feel, shall never know
Even half thy little load of wo?
What was thy prayer, when his first smile
Did thy young mother-heart beguile;
When his first cry was in thine ear,
And on thy cheek his first warm tear,
And to thy heart at first were pressed
The throbbings of his little breast?
What was thy prayer? Canst thou not now
See in his bright cherubic brow,
Hear in his soft seraphic strain,
So full of joy, so free from pain,
An answer, (as if God did speak,)
To all thy love had dared to seek?
Why, wherefore weep, when all the cares,
The doubts, the troubles, and the snares,
The threatening clouds, the falling tears,
Childhood's wild hopes, and manhood's fears,
That might have been for him, for thee,
Have passed away, and ne'er shall be? 
77
He scarcely suffered, then was crowned;
Was scarcely lost till he was found;
And scarcely heaved one mortal siglh,
Then entered immortality:
A child of thine, a child of bliss!
Wby, wherefore weep for joy like this?
Nay, rather strive to praise the love
That could so tenderly reprove;
That, when it wounded, left no sting
Of self-consuming suffering;
But with thy profit linked the joy
Of thy beloved and sainted boy.
J. S. MONSELL.
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tfne c7arts (tilrcn 3ounb le 3foon.
MxIE earthly children round me bloom,
Lovely alike in smiles and tears;
My fairest sleeps within the tomb,
Through long and silent years.
And earthly ties are round me wound,
And earthly feelings fondly nursed;
And yet the spell is not unbound
That linked me to my first-my first!
A fairy thing with flaxen hair,
And eyes of blue, and downy cheek,
And frolic limbs, and lips that were
Striving for evermore to speak;
A thing as lovely as the day;
Fair as the shapes that span the beams;
As innocent as flowers of May;
As frail, as fading as our dreams.
I see the seals of childhood fade
Slowly from each young living brow;
Yet still, in sunshine and in shade,
That infant is an infant now.
Seasons may roll, and manhood's pride
Each youthful breast with care may fill; 
79
And one by one they'll leave my side,
But she will be my baby still.
And every where, by thee unseen,
That vision followeth every where:
WVhen three are gathered on the green,
I always see another there.
When three around the board are set,
And call on father and on mother,
To mortal eyes but three are met;
But I-but I can see another.
A cherchild, with angel wings,
Is floating o'er me fond and free;
And still that gladsome infant sings,
"Grieve not, dear mother, not for me."
ELEANOR LEE.
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EDC (Eblt alto DratD.
"DEAR mother," said a little child,
"I should not like to die,
And lie within the grave, nor see
The sun shine inll the sky.
"Oh! is it not a dreadful thought,
WVhen all the earth is bright,
To know that we mlust go to sleep,
And never see the light ".
"It would be so," the mother said,
"Were not God's promise given,
That from the dreamless sleep of death
We shall awake in heaven,
"'Where shines a brighter sun than this,
Our opening eyes to bless,
That never sets, nor veils His face,
The Sun of Righteousness."
"But does it not seem very sad
To leave the glad young flowers,
That we have loved to look upon
Through all the sunmmner hours?
"WNVhea winter comes with threatening clouds,
They droop their heads and( die:
Dear mother, do they live again,
And blosscm in the sky?"
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" Not so, my child. Like us, the flowers
Of earthly dust are made;
But heaven has skies without a cloud,
And flowers that never fade.
"And happy spirits wander there
Through long, unnumbered days,
And join the angels round the throne
In songs of endless praise."
"Dear mother," said the little child,
With earnest, thoughtful eye,
And drawing closer to her side,
"l ow I should like to die!"
SUS N PINDAR.
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Aft   3tiu  (ttf.
"M OTHER, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let mne repose upon thy bosom seek;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here it is cold; the tempest raveth madly:
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut the light.
"Mother, one steals beside me now!  And( listen:
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten!
Surely those wings were given him by our Lord!
Green, gold, and red are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth:
Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?
"Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing:
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!
Do not sigh thus; it marreth my reposing;
And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee.
Oh, I am tired; my weary eyes are closing:
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!"
FROM TItE DANISH OF ANDERSON.
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QUIET slumberer! No gleam
Of fretful fancy, thought, or dream,
Passes over Death's calm stream
To thee, WVilly.
Though our tears are flowing free,
Though we sorrow sore for thee,
Thou art happier than we
In heaven, Willy.
Stricken from this weary life
Ere the world began its strife,
Or its toils and cares were rife
With thee, Willy;
Time has brought no bitter thing,
Death no terror and no sting;
Angel bands are hovering
O'er thee, Willy.
FROm " CAPRICES."
will'.
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84
Ucstignting.
"Poor heart I what bitter words we speak
When God speaks of resigning I"
CHILDREN, that lay their pretty garlands by
Most lingeringly, yet with a patient will;
Sailors, that, when the o'erladen ship lies still,
Cast out her precious freight with veiled eye,
Riches for life exchanging solemnly,
Lest they should never reach the wished-for shore:
Thus we, O Infinite! stand thee before,
And lay down at Thy feet, without one sigh,
Each after each, our lovely things and rare,
Our close heart-jewels and our garlands fair.
Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die,
And the long-voyaged hoards be found all dust;
So take them while unchanged. To Thee we trust
For incorruptible treasure-Thou art just. 
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. Sunbcam  antr a SpaboW.
I.
I HEAR a shout of merriment,
A laughing boy I see;
Two little feet the carpet press,
And bring the child to me.
Two little arms are round my neck,
Two feet upon my knee:
Hlow fall the kisses on my cheek;
How sweet they are to me!
II.
That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see;
No little arms are round my neck,
Nor feet upon my knee!
No kisses drop upon my cheek;
Those lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give him up
To any but to Thee! 
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IT must be sweet in childhood to give back
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown-to garner up its bitter fruits!
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs;
And when the eighth came round, and called him
out
To revel in its lighlt, he turned away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.
'Twas night: he summoned his accustomed friends,
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest:
Mother, I'm dying now!
There's a deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
And on my brow
I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up.  Oh, tell me, is this death?
Mother, your hand!
Here! lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus beneath my head:
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead
Shall I be missed?
I
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87
Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray;
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me.
Oh, at the time of prayer,
AVWhen you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet!
You'll miiss me there.
Father, I'm going home,
To the good home you spoke of; that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms never come.
I must be happy then:
From pain and death you say I shall be free;
That sicklness never enters there; and we
Shall meet again.
Brother, the little spot
I used to call mny garden, where long hours
We've staid to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!
Plant there some box or pine;
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory;
And. call it mine.
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Sister, my young rose tree,
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves, so green and fair,
I give to thee.
And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away, mny short life done.
But wvill you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?
Nowv, mnother, sing the tune
You sung last night; I'm weary, and must sleep.
WAVho was it called my name? Nay, do nct weep;
You'11ll all come soon!
Morning spread o'er tihe earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savory odors of the early spring:
Hie breathed it not. The laugh of passers-by
Jarred like a discord in somle mournful tune,
But wakened not his slumbers. lie was dead!
J. H. BRIGHTr.
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AND THE WAY IN WHICH SIIE FELL ASLEEP.
HuG me closer, closer, mother,
Put your arms around me tight;
I am cold and tired, mother,
And I feel so strange to-night!
Something hurts me here, dear mother,
Like a stone upon my breast;
Oh, I wonder, wonder, mother,
WVVhy it is I cannot rest!
All the day, while you were working,
As I lay upon my bed,
I was trying to be patient,
And to think of what you said;
How the kind and blessed Jesus
Loves his lambs to watch and keep;
And I wished he'd come and take me
In his arms, that I might sleep.
Just before the lamp was lighted,
Just before the children came,
WVhile the room was very quiet,
I heard some one call my name.
All at once the window opened;
In a field were lambs and sheep;
Some fiom out a brook were drinking,
Some were lying fast asleep.
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But I could not see the Saviour,
Though I strained my eyes to see;
And I wondered, if he saw me,
Would he speak to such as me.
In a moment I was looking
On a world so bright and fair,
Which was full of little children,
And they seemed so happy there!
They were singing, oh, how sweetly!
Sweeter songs I never heard;
They were singing sweeter, mother,
Than our little yellow-bird.
And while I my breath was holding,
ONE, so bright, upon me smiled;
And I knew it must be Jesus,
When he said, "Come here, my child.
"Come up here, my little Bessie,
Come up here and live withl me,
Where the children never suffer,
But are happier than you see!"
Then I thought of all you'd told me
Of that bright and happy land:
I vas going when you called me,
When you came and kissed my hand.
And at first I felt so sorry
You had called me: I would go.
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Oh, to sleep and never suffer!
3tother, don't be crying so!
Hug me closer, closer, mother,
Put your arms around me tight;
Oh, how much I love you, mother,
But I feel so strange to-night!
And the mother pressed her closer
To her overburdened breast;
On the heart so near to breaking
Lay the heart so near its rest.
At the solemn hour of midnight,
In the darkness calm and deep,
Lying on her mother's bosom,
L'ttle Bessie fell asleep.
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'R. 
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IF you're waking, call me  early, call  me  early,
mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New    Year:
It is the last New-Year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think
no more oe.
To-nighlt I saw the sun set; he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my
peace of mind;
Now the New-Year's coming up, mother, but I shall
never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the
tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a
merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me
Queen of May;
* The second and concluding part of that exquisite
poem of Tennyson's, The  Alay Queen, is here inserted
entire, with the exception of one verse. Although not
referring to the death of a young child, it possesses a tender interest to every bereaved parent.
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r
Andi we danced about the MIay-pole, and in the hazel
copse,
Till Charles'sWVaia* came out above the tall white
chimney-to8s.
There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on
the pane:
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out
on highl:
I long to see a flower so, before the day I die.
The building rook'11 caw in the windy tall elm tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow'11 come back again, with summer,
o'er the wave, _
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering
grave!
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of
mine,
In the early, early morning, the summer sun'11
shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the
hill,
VlWhen you are warm asleep, mother, and all the
world is stil.
* A  Constellation.
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When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the
waning light,
You'11l never see me more in the long gray fields at
night,
When, from the dry, dark wold, the summer airs
blow cool
On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and thle bul     rush in the pool.
You'11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw     thorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me, where I am
lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when
you pass
With your feet above my head, in the long and
pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive
me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and
brow;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be
wild;
You should not fret for me, mother: you have another
child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my rest    ing-place;
I 
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Thou'rh you'11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon
your face;
Thoughi I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what
you say,
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm
far away.
Good-night  good-night.  When I have said good     night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the
door,
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow     ing green:
She'11 be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'11ll find my garden tools upon the granary floor:
Let her take'em; they are hers: I shall never gar     den more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush
that I set
About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother:  Call me before the day
is born.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-Year,
So, if you're waking, call mne, call me early, mother
dear!
TENNYSON.
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4T t   etrtrn  of Sring.
BEING A CONCLUSION TO TIlE FOREGOING PIECE.
I THOUGIIT to pass away before, andl yet alive I am,
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the
lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the
year!
To die before the snowdrop came-and now the
violet's here!
Oh, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the
skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me who
cannot rise;
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers
that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long
to go.
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed
sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay-and yet His will
be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release,
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me
words of peace.
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Oh, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver
hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet
me there
Oh, blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver
head!
A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside
nay bed.
He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all
the sin:
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One
will let me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that
could be,
For llmy desire is but to pass to Him who died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death    watch beat;
There came a sweeter token, when the night and
morning meet:
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in
mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sigrn.
All in the wild March morning, I heard the angels
call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was
over all;
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The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to
roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call
my soul.
For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie
dear
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here.
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt
resigned,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the
wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,
And then did something speak to me. I know not
what was said,
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my
mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the
wind.
But you were sleeping, and I said, It's not for them:
it's mineAnd if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a
sign;
And once again it came, and close beside the win     dow-bars,
Then seemed to go right up to heaven, and die among
the stars.
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So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have
to go:
But for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-dayBut, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past
away.
Oh, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in
a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I
know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light
may shineWild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that, ere this
day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the
sun,
For ever and for ever, with those just souls and trueAnd what is life, that we should moan —why make
we such ado?
For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home,
And there to wait a little while, till you and Effie
come;
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your
breastAnd the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest.                     T'xYso.:
TE;N AYSO0.N-*.o:
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MOW  V-xtcfulf-!
iow peacefully they rest,
Cross-folded there
Upon his little breast,
Those tiny hands that ne'er were still before,
But ever sported with its mother's hair,
Or the bright gem that on her breast she worce!
Her heart no more will beat
To feel the touch of that soft palm,
That ever seemed a new surprise,
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes,
To bless him with their holy calmn;
Sweet thoughts, that left her eyes as sweet!
lIow quiet are the hands
That wore those pleasant banls
But that they do not rise and sink
With his calm breathing, I should think
That he were dropped asleep.
Alas! too deep-too deep
Is this his slumber!
Time scarce can number
The years ere he will wake againlOh! may we see his eyelids open then!
Hle did but float a little way
Adown the stream of time,
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,
:.-...   And listening to their airy chime.
et   ~ 
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His slender sail
Ne'er felt thle gale;
Ile did but float a little way,
And putting to the shore,
While yet'twas early dclay,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more.
No jarring did lie feel,
No grating on his vessel's keel.
A strip of silver sand
Mingled the waters with the land,
WVhere he was seen no more!
Oh! stern word-nevermore!
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ON TIIE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD.
"It is not the will of my Father which is in heaven that
one of these little ones should perish."
THE day is beautiful, and nature springs
To life and light again.  Where art thou gone
In thy young bloom, mny own, my lovely one?
Nor sun, nor balmy air, thy image brings
To bless my longing eyes. The violet flings
Its rath perfume around; sweet warblers own
Their joy in varied song; yet, sad alone,
Can I rejoice, when all surrounding things
Tell of thy opening beauty, shrouded now
In the cold precincts of the silent tomb?
I did not think to weep thy early doom,
My best beloved!  Yet would I meekly bow
To Hiis decree, who, in the words of love"She will not perish!"-whispers from above.
_.~~ 1~~ —1
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103
E:D    edtib  -of %amcs  _Mclbtiet
BORN, JULY 9, 1586.  DIED ABOUT JANUARY, 1588.
This page, if thou be a pater [parent, father] that reads
it, thou wilt apardone me; if nolcht, suspend thy censure
till thou be a father, as said the grave Laeednmonian,
Agesilaus. —Autobiography of James I~elvi'le.
ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Centending still with men untaught and wild,
WVhlen He alho to the prophliet lent his gourd,
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.
A summrer gift my precious flower was given;
A very summer fragrance was its life;
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven
AWlien ihome I turned, a weary man of strife.
A,7ith unformed laughter, musically sweet,
How soon the wakening babe w-ould meet my kiss;
WTithli outstretched arms its care-wroughlt father greet:
Oh! in thie desert ilhat a spdring waas this!
A few short months it blossomed near my heart;
A few short months-else toilsome all and sad;
But that home solace nerved me for my part,
And of the babe I was exceeding glad!
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Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was d(lying  (The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!)
And Hie who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying,
Took gently home the child of my delight.
Not rudely culled-not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded firom our love away!
As if still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day!
MIy blessed iaster saved me from repining,
So tenderly Hie sued me for Hiis own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done!
And daily to my board at noon and even
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring,
That we might commune of our rest in heaven,
Gazing the while on death without its sting.
And of the ransom for that baby paid,
So very sweet at times our converse seemed,
That the sure truth of grief a gladness made  Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed!
ere two milk-white dcloves my wife had nourished;
I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand,
r   how each the other fondly cherished,
fed them firom my baby's dimpled hand!
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So tame they grew, that, to his cradle flying,
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest; 
And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast.
'Twas a fair sight-the snow-pale infant sleeping,
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild;
Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping:
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child 
Still, as he sickened, seemed the doves too dwining,
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play;
And on the day he died, with sad note pining,
One gentle bird would not be frayed away.
His mother found it, when she rose sad-hearted,
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill;
And when, at last, the little spirit parted,
The dove died too, as if of its heart's chill!
The other flew to meet my sad home-riding,
-As with a human sorrow in its cooTo my dead child and its dead mate then guiding,
Most pitifully plained, and parted too!
'Twas my first "hansel" * and "propine" t to Heaven:
And as I laid my darling'neath the sod
P  Earnest, pledge.
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* Present. 
106
Precious Hiis comforts-once an infant given,
And offered with two turtle-doves to God!
MRS. A. STUART MENTEATII.
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(t, a's 30rqc.
VAINLY for us the sunbeams shine;
Dimmed is our joyous hearth;
O Casa! dearer dust than thine
Ne'er mixed with mother earth!
Thou wert the corner-stone of love,
The key-stone of our fate!
Thou art not!  Heaven scowls dark above,
And earth is desolate!
Ocean may move with billows curled,
And moons may wax and wane,
And flesh flowers blossom; but this world
Shall claim not thee again.
Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice
Our hearts, till love ran o'er;
Thy smile is vanished, and thy voice
Silent for evermore!
Yes, thou art gone, our heart's delight,
Our boy so fond and dear!
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,
No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,
To fill our home with joy!
Like lightning hath thy race been run,
As swift, as bright, fair boy! 
108
Now winter with its snow departs,
The green leaves clothe the tree;
But summer smiles not on the hearts
That bleed and break for thee;
The young MIay weaves her flowery crown,
Hier boughs ill beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down
Upon thy silent grave.
Dear to our souls is every spot
Wahere thy small feet have trod;
There, odors breathed from Eden float,
And sainted is the sod;
The wild bee with its buglet fine,
The blackbird singing free,
Alelt both thy mother's heart and mine  They speak to us of thee!
Only in dreams thou comest now
From Heaven's immortal shore,
A glory round that infant brow
Which Death's pale signet bore.
'Twas thy fond looks,'twas thy fond lips,
That lent our joys their tone;
And life is shadowed in eclipse
Since thou from earth art gone.
WNere thine the fond, endearing ways
That tenderest feeling prove;
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109
A thousand wiles to win our praise,
To claim and keep our love.
Fondness for us thrilled all thy veins;
And, Casa, can it be
That naught of all the past remains
Except vain tears for thee?
Idly we watch, thy form to trace
In children on the street;
Vainly in each familiar place
We list thy pattering feet.
Then sudden o'er these fancies crushed
Despair's black pinions wave;
WNVe know that sound for ever hushed  We look upon thy grave!
O heavenly child of mortal birth!
Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,
But inmate of the skies.
To feel that life renewed is thine,
A soothing balm imparts;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,
And Sabbath fills our hearts.
Thou leanest where the fadeless wands
Of amaranth bend o'er;
Thy white wings brush the golden sands
Of Hieaven's refulgent shore.
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Thy home is where the psalm and song
Of angels choir abroad,
And blessed spirits all day long
Bask round the throne of God.
There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years through endless ages roll,
From sin and sorrow free.
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,
Who now a seraph art?
A little while, a little while  Ah! long it cannot beAnd thou again on us wilt smile
Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart,
How sinful to deplore!
Oh that we were where now thou art,
Not lost, but gone before!
W. D. MoiR. 
111
SHE lies in her coffill,
Her little sand run!
The golden bowl broken,
Her happy life done!
No more her sweet prattle
Will wake us at light;
No more to each dear one
She'll lisp her "Good-night."
How clear used to warble
Her voice in the song!
What ripe words, yet childish,
Oft fell from her tongue!
That voice now is silent;
We'11 listen in vain,
Amid our sad circle,
To hear it again!
Oft came a light tapping,
Scarce touching the floor;
We knew't was her footstep  We'11ll know it no more!
We glance at her playthings,
Her books and her cot,
And tears wet our eyelids,
For Menie is not!
f
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Hush! Menie still liveth,
Though not to our sight;
Hier happy soul basking
In Heaven's own light.
Her voice still is singiing,
Though not for our ear;
She swelleth the chorus
No mortal may hear.
We ne'er to our bosoms
Our darling may press,
Yet needs she no token
Of love's tenderness:
For Jesus hath called her;
She rests in his arms,
Free now from all sickness,
Free now from all harms.
She lies in her coffin,
Life's little sand run;
But, being far nobler,
She just hath begun!
Oh, would we recall her
To sin and to pain?
We'11 come to thee, Menie,
We'll see thee again! 
113
Oti  33at+
WIIEX the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And out-shaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;
That's the time our little babyStrayed from Paradise, it may beCame, with eyes like heaven above her:
Oh, we could not choose but love her!
Not enough of earth for sinning,
Always gentle, always winning,
Never needing our reproving,
Ever lively, ever loving;
Starry eyes and sunset tresses,
WVhite arms, made for light caresses,
Lips that knew no word of doubting,
Often kissing, never pouting;
Beauty even in completeness,
Over-full of childish sweetness
That's the way our little baby,
Far too pure for earth, it may be,
Seemed to us, who, while about her,
Deemed we could not do without her.
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When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
Akd with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And out-shaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;
That's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded like a summer blossom.
Now, the litter she doth lie on,
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion
Go, as past a pleasant meadow,
Through the valley of the shadow.
Take her softly, holy angels,
Past the ranks of God's evangels;
Past the saints and martyrs holy,
To the Earth-Born, meek and lowly:
We would have our precious blossom
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom.
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~d ou~)llJ 2Zr an~ntatmt.t~
Room, Mother Earth, upon thy breast for this young
child of ours;
Give her a quiet resting-place among thy buds and
flowers;
Oh! take her gently from our arms unto thy silent
fold,
For she is calmly beautiful, and scarcely two years
old,
And ever since she breathed on us hath tender nurs    ing known:
No wonder that with aching hearts we leave her
here alone.
How we shall miss the roguish glee, thie merry,
merry voice,
That in the darkest, dreariest day would make us to
rejoice!
How sweet was every morning kiss, each parting for
the night,
Her lisping words, that on us fell as gently as the
light!
Bat deatlh came softly to the spot where she was wont
to rest,
And bade us take her from our home and lay her on
thiy breast.
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So, mother, thou hast one child more, and we have
one child less;
The sweetest spot in all our hearts seems now a
wilderness,
From which the warm light of the sun has wandered
swift and far,
And nothing there of radiance left but Memory's
solemn star:
We gaze a moment on its light, then sadly turn aside,
As though we now had none to love, and all with her
had died.
Mother, we know we should rejoice that she has gone
beforeGone where the withering hand of death shall never
touch her more,
Up to the clime of sinless souls, a golden harp to bear,
And join the everlasting song of singing children
there:
Yet, when we think how dear she was to us in her
brief stay,
We can but weep that one so sweet so early passed
away.
R.
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all   ~ie  is  Not.
W.HEN at eve my children gather
Round the lowly ingle-side,
Whispering to my spirit, " Father,
In thy love we each confide;"
While I press them to my bosom,
In an overflow of joy,
HIow I miss that stricken blossom,
IHim who was the only boy!
Often will they talk of brother,
Even she who knew him not;
For I think that for another
IHe should never be forgot;
And I love to link their feelings
W-ith the kindred one away,
Though the thought will oft be stealing,
That dear form is naught but clay.
Still I bow ill bland submission;
Even grateful try to be:
One is not; but, blest condition!
Providence has left me three.
So I'11 press them to my bosom,
In an overflow of joy;
Heaven has gained my cherished blossom,
God's is now my only boy!
REv. E. C. JONES.
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,olualt.
OFT have I thought they err, who, having lost
That love-gift of our youth, an infant child,
Yield the faint heart to those emotions wild
Wvith which, too oft, strong Memory is crost,
Shrinking with sudden gasp, as if a ghost
Frowned in their path. Not thus the precepts mild
Of Jesus teach; which never yet beguiled
Man with vain promises. God loves us most
When chastening us; and Hie who conquered
death
Permits not that we still deem death a curse.
The font is man's true tomb; the grave his nurse
For heaven, and feeder with immortal breath.
Oh, grieve not for the dead! None pass from earth
Too soon: God then fulfils his purpose in our birth!
S.R AUBR-EY DE VERE.
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eDe 4tbitre       at the coaeb   CGates.
LITTLE travellers Zionward
Each one entering into rest
In the kingdom of your Lord,
In the mansions of the blest;
There, to welcome, Jesus waits,
Gives the crowns his followers win.
Lift your heads, ye golden gates,
Let the little travellers in!
Who are they whose little feet,
Pacing life's darkl journey through,
Now have reached that heavenly seat
They had ever kept in view?
"I from Greenland's frozen land;"
"I from India's sultry plain;"
"I from Afric's barren sand;"
"I from islands of the main."'
"All our earthly journey past,
Every tear and pain gone by,
Here together met at last
At the portals of the sky:
Each the welcome' COME' awaits,
Conquerors over death and sin I"
Lift your heads, ye golden gates,
Let the little travellers in!
JAS. EDMENSTO:
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120
CD eoob  -Dpb.
WIIHxEN on my ear your loss was knelled,
And tender sympathy upburst,
A little rill from memory swelled,
Which once had soothed my bitter thirst.
And I was fain to bear to you
Some portion of its mild relief,
That it mnight be as healing dew,
To steal some fever from your grief.
After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death,
Like a long twilight, haunting lay,
And firiends came round with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,
This story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love:
"They in the valley's sheltering care
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The Shepherd strives to make them climb
"To airy shelves of pasture green,
That hang along the mountain's side,
Where grass and flowers together lean,
And down through mists the sunbeams slide;
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"But naught can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the Shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,
"Till in his arms the lambs hie takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go;
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow.
"And in those pastures lifted fair,
More dewy soft than lowland mead,
The Shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed."
This parable, by Nature breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind firee
O'er frozen brooks, that float, unsheathed
From icy thraldom, to the sea.
A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the stony way,
Holding our little lamb asleep;
And like the burden of the sea
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, "Arise and follow me."
MARIA LOwELL.
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122
.Utsitnatiou.
TIIERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But. has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead-the child of our affection  But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection
And Christ himself dothli rule.
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123
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her giown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
Mlay reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when, with raptures wild,
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all thie soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,
L 
124
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
LO-N\GFELLOW.
I 
125
33reabment.
" The Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before"
I MARKED when vernal meads were bright,
And many a primrose smiled;
I marked her, blithe as morning light,
A dimpled three years' child.
A basket on one tender arm
Contained her precious store
Of spring flowers, in their freshest charm,
Told proudly o'er and o'er.
The other wound with earnest hold
About her blooming guide,
A maid, who scarce twelve years had told:
So walked they side by side
One a bright bud, and one may seem
A sister-flower half blown:
Full joyous on their loving dream
The sky of April shone.
The summer months swept by: again
That loving pair I met;
On russet heath and bowery lane
Th' autumnal sun had set:
And chill and damp that Sunday eve
Breathed on the mourner's road.
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That bright-eyed little one to leave
Safe in the saints' abode.
Behind, the guardian sister came,
Hier bright brow dimin and paleOh, cheer the maiden!-in His name,
Who stilled Jairus' wail!
Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft
That held by thine so fast,
The fond-appealing eye, full oft
Toward thee for refuge cast.
Sweet toils! sweet cares, for ever gone!
No more from stranger's face
Or startling sound, the timid one
Shall hide in thy embrace.
Thy first glad earthly task is o'er,
And dreary seems thy way;
And what if, nearer than before,
She watch thee even to-day?
What if henceforth by Hieaven's decree
She leave thee not alone,
But in her turn prove guide to thee
In ways to angels known?
Oh! yield thee to her whisperings sweet:
Away with thoughts of gloom!
W                       -                                    s  -~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
127
In love the loving spirits greet,
Who wait to bless her tomb.
In loving hope, with her unseen,
Walk as in hallowed air;
When foes are strong, and trials keen,
Think, " NVhat if she be there?"
IEBLE.
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128
ZDc  %tar  alto  tDc (tilb.
A MAIDEN walked at eventide
Beside a clear and placid stream,
And smiled, as in its depths she saw
A trembling star's reflected beam.
She smiled until the beam was lost,
As'cross the skyv a cloud was driven;
And then she sighed, and then forgot
The star was shining still in heaven.
A MOTHIIER sat beside life's stream,
Witching a dying child at dawn,
And smiled, as from its eye she caught
A hope that it might still live on.
She smiled until the eyelids closed,
But watched for breath until the even;
And then she wept, and then forgot
The child was living still in heaven.
R.
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ongec  startues
IIE came-a beauteous vision  Then vanished fi-om my sight,
Hiis cherub win.g scarce clearing
The blackness of my night;
Aly glad ear caught its rustle,
Then, sweeping by, he stole
The dew-drop that his coming
HIad cherished in my soul.
Oh! hlie had been my solace
When grief my spirit swayed,
And on his fragile being
HIad tender hopes been stayed;
Where thought, where feeling lingered,
Hiis form was sure to glide,
And in the lone night-watches
'Twas ever by my side.
He came; but as the blossom
Its petals closes up,
And hides them from the tempest
Within its sheltering cup;
So he his spirit gathered
Back to its frightened breast,
And passed from earth's grim thT,x c4'd
To be the Saviour's guest.
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130
My boy-ah me! the sweetness,
The anguish of that word!
MIy boy, when in strange night-dreams
My slumbering soul is stirred;
When music floats around me,
When soft lips touch my brow,
And whisper gentle greetings,
Oh tell me, is it thou?
I know by one sweet token
My Charley is not dead;
One golden clue he left me,
As on his track he sped:
Were he some gem or blossom,
But fashioned for to-day,
My love would slowly perish
With his dissolving clay.
Oh, by this deathless yearning,
Which is not idly given,
By the delicious nearness
My spirit feels to heaven;
By dreams that throng my night-sleep,
By visions of the day,
By whispers when I'm erring,
By promptings when I pray,
I know this life so cherished,
Which sprang beneath my heart, 
131
Which formed of my own being
So beautiful a part;
This precious, winsome creature,
IMy unfledged, voiceless dove,
Lifts now a seraph's pinion,
And warbles lays of love.
Oh, I would not recall thee,
My glorious angel-boy!
Thou needest not my bosom,
Rare bird of life and joy!
Hiere dash I down the tear-drops
Still gathering in my eyes;
Blest-oh, how blest!-in adding
A seraph to the skies.
EMILY C. JUDSON.
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44  otc, sing  -ZlToalcmi
THE LAST WORDS OF A DYING CHILD.
A CHILD lay in a twilight room,
,Vith pallid, waxen face;
A little child, whose tide of life
Had nearly run its race.
Most holy robes the angels brought,
By holy spirits given,
Ready to wrap the child in them,
And carry him to heaven.
And shining wings, with clasps of light,
Two shining wings they bore,
To fasten on the seraph-child,
Soon as the strife was o'er.
Perchance their beauty made him think
Of some harmonious word
That often from his mother's lips
The dying one had heard.
It might be, for he whispered low,
"Sing, mother, sing," and smiled;
The worn one knelt beside the couch:
"What shall I sing, my child?"
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"Jerusalem, my happy home," 
The gasping boy replied;
And sadly sweet the clear notes rang
Upon the eventide.
"Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me!
When shall my labors have an end
In joy,'and peace, and thee?"
And on she sang, while breaking hearts
Beat slow, unequal time;
They felt the passing of the soul
With that triumphal chime.
" Oh, when, thou city of my God,
Shall I thy courts ascend?"
They saw the shadows of the grave
With his sweet beauty blend.
"Why should I shrink at pain or woe,
Or feel at death dismay?"
She ceased-the angels bore the child
To realms of endless day. 
134
larln Rost, Eati!   abet.
WiInis her downy cradle there lay a little child,
And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her
smiled;
A strife arose among theam-a loving, holy strifeWhich should shed the richest blessing over the new    born life.
One breathed upon her features, and the babe in
beauty grew,
With a cheek like morniing's blushes, and an eye of
azure hue;
Till every one who saw her, were thankful for the
sight
Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever-fresh
delight.
Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical
As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling stream    let's fall;
Till all who heard her laughing, or her words of
childish grace,
Loved as much to listen to her as to look upon her
face.
Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle
mind,
And within the lovely casket the precious gem
enshrined;
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135
Till all who knew her wondered that God should be
so good
As to bless with such a spirit our desert world and
rude.
Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and truth,
The budding of her childhood just opening into
youth;
And to our hearts yet dearer eveiy moment than
before
She became, though we thought fondly heart could
not love her more.
Then out-spake another angel, nobler, brighter than
the rest,
As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his
breast:
"Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mor    tal race,
But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her
face.
"Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her
tongue,
And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips
be wrung;
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know the taint
of sin.
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"Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far
away,
Where there is no sin nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor
decay;
And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts
shall beLo! I crown her happy spirit with immortality!"
Then on his heart our' darling yielded up her gentle
breath,
For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best,
was DEATH II!
BETHUrE. 
137
Epe 3ternal (at.
On! think that while you're weeping here,
His hand a golden harp is stringing;
And, with a voice serene and clear,
His ransomed soul, without a tear,
His Saviour's praise is singing.
And think that all his pains are fled,
His toils and sorrows closed for ever;
While He whose blood for man was shed
Has placed upon his infant head
A crown that fadeth never!
And think that in that awful day
When darkness sun and moon is shading
The form that midst its kindred clay
Your trembling hands prepared to lay,
Shall rise to life unfading!
Then weep no more for him who's gone
Where sin and suffering ne'er shall enter;
But on that great High Priest alone,
Who can for guilt like ours atone,
Your whole affections centre.
DR. IIUIE. 
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138
3Epitap  in tpe eburcb,"arb ot  gerne.
SWEET babe, firom griefs and dangers
Rest here for ever free;
We leave thy dust with strangers,
But oh, we leave not thee!
Thy modrtal sweetness, smitten
To scourge our souls from sin,
Is on our memory written,
And treasured deep therein;
While that which is immortal
Fond Hope doth still retain,
And saith, "At heaven's bright portal
Ye all shall meet again."
J. MOULTRIE. 
139
a 3Batb33cb.
IHER suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long nigit away
In statue-like repose.
But when the sun, in all his state,
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed through Glory's Morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise!
JAMES ALDRICH.
gfnotbtt.
WE watched her breathing through the night
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her heart the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her being out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
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We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.
TIIOMAS HiooD.
I.
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141
. juillfsttrinq angel. 
MOTHER, has the dove that nestled
Lovingly upon thy breast
Folded up his little pinion,
And in darkness gone to rest?
Nay, the grave is dark and dreary,
But the loved one is not there;
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper
Floating on the ambient air?
It is near thee, gentle mother,
Near thee at the evening hour;
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr,
It looks up from every flower.
And when, night's dark shadows fleeing,
Low thou bendest thee in prayer,
And thy heart feels nearest heaven,
Then thy angel babe is there!,,
EMILY JUDSON.
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(case to Weep.
MIOTIER, o'er thy daughter bending,
On her bed of death attending,
Cease to heave those sighs heart-rending         Cease to weep.
Vain the tears you now are weeping,
Vain the watch you now are keeping:
Calmly now in peace she's sleeping
Death's long sleep.
For her now the Son is pleading
To that Fatheli ne'er unheeding;
And her spirit, homeward speeding,
May not stay.
Moum not, then, that she is leaving
Early thus a world deceiving,
Where so many oft are grieving
Death's delay.
J. H. GRANVILLE.
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ur 
Tiiou bright and star-like spirit,
That in my visions wild
I see mid heaven's seraphic host,
Oh, canst thou be my child!
My grief is quenched in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch of this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies!
Our hopes of thee were lofty;
But have we cause to grieve?
Oh, could our proudest, fondest wish
A nobler fate conceive?
The little weeper-tearless;
The sinner-snatched from sin;
The babe-to more than manhood grown
Ere childhood did begin.
And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see:
Thou art to me a parent now,
And I a child to thee.
Thy brain, so uninstructed
While in this lowly state,
Now threads the mazy tracks of spheres,
Or reads the book of fate.
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Thine eyes, so curbed in vision,
Now range the realms of space,
Look down upon the rolling stars,
Look up-in God's own face.
Thy little hand so helpless,
That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or strikes a harp of gold.
Thy feeble feet, unsteady,
That t6ttered as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly pathls,
Or stand before their God.
Nor is thy tongue less skilful
Before the throne divine;
'T is pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she prayed for thine.
What bliss is born of sorrow!
'T is never sent in vain:
The heavenly Surgeon maims to save;
He gives no useless pain.
Our God, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down,
And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.
TIiOMAS WARD.
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(%b  3ookeb  amotrg  Dis  (me tf 33aitbr.
GOD looked among his cherub band,
And one was wanting there,
To swell along the holy land
The hymns of praise and prayer.
One little soul which long had been
Half way'tween earth and sky,
Untempted in a world of sin,
Hle watched with loving eye.
It was too promising a flower
To bloom upon this earth,
And God did give it angel power,
And bright celestial birth.
The world was all too bleak and cold
To yield it quiet rest;
God brought it to his shepherd-fold,
And laid it on his breast.
There, mother, in thy Saviour's arms,
For ever undefiled,
Amid the little cherub band,
Is thy beloved child.
7
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146
We  are  %ebtir
A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I MET a little cottage Girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
lier hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Hler eyes were fair, and very fair:
Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
Hlow many may you be?"
" ilow many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we:
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie    My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother." 
147
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply:
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"M y stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit    I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there. 
148
"The first that died was little Jane:
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pailn,
And then she went away.
"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
TogeLher round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
" How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
The little Maiden did reply,
"Oh, Master, we are seven!"
"But they are dead: those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, " ay, we are seven!"
WORDSWORTH.
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149
#Ze  afetA  of tje itnfant teab.
They only can be said to possess a child for evcr, who
have lost one in infancy.
OUR beauteous child we laid amidst the silence of
the dead;
WAVe heaped the earth, and spread the turf above the
cherub-head;
WVe turned again to sunny life, to other ties as dear,
And the world has thought us comforted, when we
have dried the tear.
And time has rolled its onward tide, and in its ample
range
Hias poured along the happiest paths vicissitude and
change;
The flexile forms of infancy their earliest leaves have
shed,
And the tall, stately forest trees are waving in their
stead.
We guide not now our children's steps, as we were
wont before,
For they have sprung to manhood, they lean on us
no more;
We gaze upon the lofty brow, and time and thought
have cast
A shade, through which we seek in vain the memory
of the past.
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150
And do we mourn the other change, which mocks
ouI memory here?
Ah no! t is but the answered wish of many a secret
prayer:
Centre of all our fondest hopes, we live but in their
fame,
But our love, as to a little child, how can it be the
same?
We still have one-and only one-secure in sacred
trust;
It is the lone and lovely one that's sleeping in the
dust.
We fold it in our arms again, we see it by our side
In the helplessness of innocence, which sin has never
tried.
All earthly trust, all mortal years, however light
they fly,
But darken on the glowing cheek, and dim  the
eagle eye;
But there, our bright, unwithering flower-our spirit's
hoarded storeWe keep through every chance and change, the same
for evermore.
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)ce.pirit's hong  of (:olsoatict.*
DEAR parents, grieve no more for me;
AIy parents, grieve no more;
B3elieve that I am happier far
Than even with you before.
I've left a world where woe and sin
Swell onwards as a river,
And gained a world where I shall rest
Inr. peace and joy for ever.
Our Father bade me come to him,
Be gently bade me come;
And he has made his heavenly house
My dwelling-place and home.
On that best day of all the seven
Which saw the Saviour rise,
I heard the voice you could not heal,
Which called me to the skies.
I saw, too, what you could not see  Two beauteous angels stand;
They smiling stood, and looked at me,
And beckoned with their hand;
They said they were my sisters dear,
And they were sent to bear
* Supposed to be addressed by the departed spirit of a
boy to his parents, who had lost two other children before
him.
L.                                      -
I. 
My spirit to their blessed abode,
To live for evei there.
Then think not of the mournful time
When I resigned my breath,
Nor of the place where I was laid,
The gloomy house of death;
But think of that high world, where I
.No more shall suffer pain,
And of the time when all of us
In heaven sl-all meet again.
F. W. P. GRuSNwooD.
m~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
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Sl.EEP on, my babe  thy little bed
Is cold, indeed, and narrow;
Yet calmly there shall rest thy head,
And neither mortal pain nor dread
Shall e'er thy feelings harrow!
Thou may'st no more return to me;
But there's a time, my dearest,
When I shall lay me down by thee,
And when of all, my babe shall be,
That sleep around, the nearest!
And sound our sleep shall be, my child,
Were earth's foundations shaken;
Till iHe, the pure, the undefiled,
Who once, like thee, an infant smiled,
The dead to life awaken!
Then if to Him, with faith sincere,
My babe at death was given,
The kindred tie that bound us here,
Though rent apart with many a tear,
Shall be renewed in heaven.
R. HUIE.
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~pitaph on a EDift. 
154
RISE," said the Master, "come unto the feast."
She heard the call, and came with willing feet;
But thinking it not otherwise than meet,
For such a bidding, to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace-gate,
That gives her entrance to thle blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet, though we have been
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft
Have listened underneath the postern green,
And laid firesh flowers, and whispered short and
soft;
But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.
11. ALFORD.
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oTbc fPa,ter's (fall. 
155
Entterfntltg fn. 
THE valleys of Paradise echo again,
And harp-notes of heaven are melting away;
Glad voices of melody catch the soft strain,
An angel, an angel shall join us to-day!
She enters and pauses, her little bare feet
Rest shining and white on the glittering ground;
Her ruby lips quiver, as fearing to meet
The bright infant cherubs that gather around.
They pass their soft hands o'er her luminous brow,
With angelic winning her spirit beguile;
They whisper the language which cherubims know,
Her blue eyes grow liquid with heaven's first
smile.
"Wings,  wings for the angel!"   Behold! she is
plumed.
Bring harps, golden harps for the beautiful one;
Her brow with a glorious wreath is illumed,
Her reign of eternity sweetly begun. 
156
AeD ztafnfnq %epbtr
To win his flocks to fields above,
Where dewy grass lies clothed in green,
The goodly shepherd takes with love
Thle gentle lambs his arms between;
WVhile on his breast they trusting lie,
He climbs aloft to verdure rare;
Then finds be's won them toward the sky  The mother-fold all gathering there!
So Christ, in love, to win his folds,
And lift the parent's heart to heaven,
Their precious babes his bosom holds  He only takes what he has given
And bears them through the pearly gates,
And keeps for us our jewels there;
For well he knows the heart but waits
To follow where its treasures are.
D. 
157
For:tarltes 5ate
C. D. P.-Ob. Oct. 28, 1861.
TIIE night is late, the house is still;
The angels of the hour fulfil
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch, in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."
MIy listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,
And patience learned of mournful days,
And memories of the dead child's ways.
His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,*
Who every day doth Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.
For Charlie's sake I will arise;
I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
* Isaiah 8833: T17.
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158
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.*
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed-for Charlie's sake and mine.
I'm very poor-his slender stone
Marks all the narrow field I own;
Yet, patient husbandman, I till
WAith faith and prayers, that precious hill,
Sow it with penitential pains,
And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;
Content, if, after all, the spot
Yield barely one forget-me-notWhether or figs or thistles make
-My crop, content for Charlie's sake.
I have no houses, builded wellOnly that little lonesome cell,
Where never romping playmates come,
Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumbAn April burst of girls and boys,
Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys,
Born with their songs, gone with their toys;
Nor ever is its stillness stirred
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,
Or-mother's twilight legend, told
Of Homer's pie, or Tiddler's gold,
* 2 Samuel 13: 16, 28.
I 
159
Or fairy, hobbling to the door,
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,
To bless the good child's gracious eyes,
The good child's wistful charities,
And crippled changeling's hunch to make
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.
How is it with the child?'Tis well;
Nor would I any miracle
Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,
Or plague his painless countenance;
I.would not any seer might place
His staff on my immortal's face,
Or, lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality.
No, Shunammite! I would not break
God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. 
For Charlie's sake my lot is blest;
No comfort like his mother's breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed
In fairest forms hath half her zest.
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed
That Death left lonely in the nest;
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,
As for its birth-day in its best
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest
To Him who gave, and who did take,
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.
* 2 Kings 4: 26, 29, 84.
-           -             -          -       -            - -- -----                                                                                                                                              —.. -.
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1(60
Our vat!+
OF all the darling children
That e'er a household blessed
We place our baby for compare
With the fairest and the best;
She came when last the violets
Dropped from the hand of Spring;
When on the trees the blossoms hungThose cups of odorous incense swung,
When dainty robins sing.
Hlow glowed the early morning
After a night of rain,
When she possessed our waiting hearts
To go not out again;
"Dear Lord," we said, with thankful speech,
"Grant we may love thee more,
For this new blessing in a cup
That was so full before!"
September, 1858.
This year, before the violets
Had heralded the spring,
And not a leaf was on the trees
Nor robin here to sing,
An angel came one solemn night,
ileaven's glory to bestow,
And take our darling from our sightWhat could we, Lord, at morning light,
But weep, and let her go!
:        f-eB 
161
How dark the day that followed
That dreary night of pain,
Those eyes now closed, and never more
To open here again!
"Dear Lord," we said, with broken speech,
" Grant we may love thee more,
For this new jewel in the crown
Where we had two before!"
A. D. F. R.
September, 1860.
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162
33a2 loottfnu  out for noes
Two little busy hands patting on the window,
Two laughing, bright eyes looking out at me;
Two rosy-red cheeks dented with a dimple;
MAlother-bird is coming; baby, do you see?
Down by the lilac-bush, something white and azure,
Saw I in the window as I passed the tree;
Well I knew the apron and shoulder-knots of ribbon;
All belonged to baby, looking out for me.
Talking low and tenderly
To myself, as mothers will,
Spake I softly: "God in heaveI,
Keep my darling free from ill,
Worldly gain and worldly honors
Ask I not for her from Thee;
But from want and sin and sorrow,
Keep her ever pure and free."
Two little waxen hands,
Folded soft and silently;
Two little curtained eyes,
Looking out no more for me;
Two little snowy cheeks,
Dimple-dented nevermore;
Two little trodden shoes,
That will never touch the floor;
Shoulder-ribbon softly twisted,
Apron folded, clean and white;
These are left me-and these only
Of the childish presence bright.
I 
163
Thus He sent an answer to my earnest praying,
Thus He keeps my darling free from earthly stain,
Thus He folds the pet lamb safe from earthly straying;
But I miss her sadly by the window-pane,
Till I look above it: then, with purer vision,
Sad, I weep no longer the lilac-bush to pass,
For I see her, angel-pure and white and sinless,
IValking with the harpers, by the sea of glass.
Two little snowy wings
Softly flutter to and fro,
Two tiny childish hands
Beckon still to me below;
Two tender angel eyes
Watch me ever earnestly
Through the loop-holes of the stars;
Baby's looking out for me.
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GOD bless the little feet that can never go astray, -
For the little shoes are empty, in the closet laid awray!
Sometimes I take one in my hand, forgetting, till I see
It is a little half-worn shoe, not large enough for me;
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain,
As sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in
twain.
O little feet that wearied not! I wait for them no more,
For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reached
the shore;
And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little
shoes so old,
She stands unsandled in the streets that pearly gates
enfold;
And so I lay them down again, but always turn to
say:
God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot
stray.
And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see
Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be;
Two little faces lifted, with their sweet and tender
eyes.
Ah me! I might have known that look was born of
Paradise.
I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty
air!
There's nothing of my darlings but the shoes they
used to wear.
164 
165
Oh! the bitterness of parting cannot be done away,
Till I see my darlings walking where their feet can
never stray;
WVhen I no more am drifted upon the surging tide,But with theme safely landed upon the river-side;
Be patient, heart! while waiting to see their shining
way,
For the little feet in the golden street can never go
astray.. 
16t
0nlr a Tear.
ONE year ago, a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.
Only a year, no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!
One year ago, what loves, what schemes
Far into life!'
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
W hat generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall,
The burial-stone;,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
Remain alone!
One year, one year, one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.
.1
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167
No pause or hush of merry birds,
That sing above,
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?
What rising fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone;
But present still,
And waiting for the comning hour
Of God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year!
MRS. STOWE. 
168
fafr-;ate+*
THE picture of a little child
That comes to us from o'er the sea,
Why hath it thus my heart beguiled,
WVhy such a charm for me?
Before it oft I stop and gaze,
And pass the rarer pictures by,
Until the shopman, in amaze,
]Would seem to ask me why.
lIe does not know, nor need I tell,
Where, in that face, a look I see
Of one who for a while did dwell
On earth to comfort me.
The picture of a little child,
A book, a child, and nothing more;
And she to quiet reconciled
By FAIRY TALES of yore.
What joy, what wonder on her face,
And such as children only know;
And Art has caught each changeful grace,
And will not let it go.
O childish face! thou art not mute,
Thou giv'st my thought mysterious range;
Here in thy presence I compute
A story sweet and strange:
* A picture by a foreign artist of a little child seated, and reading a
large book.
I 
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169
The story of a little life,
So brief, and yet withal so sweet;
'Twould seem  a dream, but for the strife
That made the life complete.
Thus many a time in days gone by,
A child, who dwells with uts no more,
(How deep the slhadclows now that lie
AVhere sunlight was before,)
Would sit, a book within her hand,
Her eye intent upon the Vale,
As though she well did understand
What did her sight engage.
0 blessed child! I see thee still!
My heart o'erleaps the solemn years,
And eyes thou once with light didst fill,
Thou fillest now-with tears.
And yet through Sorrow's cloud and mist
MIy eager sight is swift to run
Through sapphire hues, and amethyst,
And glory of the sun;
Until thy face, with wondrous change,
I, as in vision, clearly see;
O child of mine! 0 marvel strange!
What might I learn of thee!
Two score of years, what have they brought
Of knowledge to compare with thine?
The narrow reach of human thought,
To that which is divine!
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170
The mysteries of our mortal state,
At which I shrink as they unfold,
Nor fear nor wonder can create
In them who God behold!
Sweet child, not mine as heretofore,
Still mine in glory yet to be;
Dear Lord, could I desire more
Concerning her of thec!
O throbbing heart! thy longings cease;
Come, patient Lord, thy grace bestow,
And turn this sorrow into peace,
That shall more perfect grow.
This picture of a little child,
By one who dwells across the sea,
Thus hath it oft my heart beguiled,
And been a joy to mne!            A. D. F. R.
f