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Soon the little stranger's fright

Passes like a cloud away,

While the day that knows no night
Shines upon her heavenly play.

Hark again! a gentle tap

Echoes through the angel's heart; And the child upon her lap In her sacred joy has part: Little arms enfold the stranger,

:

Little lips the kiss have given; "Here's no sorrow, here's no danger! Darling sister, this is heaven!"

Yet again, and louder sounding,
Falls a knock on heaven's gate,
And the infant cherubs bounding,
Will not let their brother wait;
Eyes that closed in weariness,
Lips that murmured sad farewell,
Open in celestial bliss

With the sisters loved so well.

Now their angel with delight

Leads them onward, hand in hand,

And reveals to eager sight

Glories of the spirit-land.

Happy children! thus to flee

Early to their home above!
Happy those below, to be

Upward drawn by chords of love!

SUBMISSION.

LIKE a bowed lily lies her fair young head: Cold in her shroud: colder the heart below! No more the feverish pulses come and go; The watchers are the watchers of the dead.

Sad eyes that saw her fade, are full of tears; Fond hands that smoothed her pillow, clasped

in prayer;

And love goes wailing in its dark despair, Till the sweet dawning of God's grace appears

O blest the soul whose lips of faith can say In the storm lulls of grief-"Thy will be done!"

O blest the soul that trusts that Holy One, Who in His bosom bears His lambs away! HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.

THE LOSS OF A CHILD.

To those who have lost a child,-who have seen the little one, whose prattling joy had been the sweet music that cheered the sorrowing hour, go down with a disease as a plucked flower withers before the scorching sun,—it is sad to read an obituary notice even of a stranger child. The loss of a sweet and beloved child is a sorrow of which none but those who have suffered can have the least realizing sense; it is unlike that of any other relation; it is not like the tearing off simply of a limb, but unwinding and breaking to pieces the little tendrils that have grown around the heart and become part of one's self. It is the opening of all the feelings, and pouring sorrow in at every pore, From the first recognition of the child, when it turns its infant eye upon its parents, hope, expectation, and joy, mingled with the dread of some unforeseen difficulty or sorrow, spring up in the soul and grow with its growth, and strengthen with its strength, until they become the leading feature of our affections. What the little one will be, more than what he is, is what we love, What we hope for, and what we expect, more than what we see and know, are the ties that

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bind us to our children. Every development of character, every new sign of increasing knowledge, every new idea or thought, or show of reason, is noticed, caught up, and loved; and we clasp them every day to our breast with new emotions and stronger affections. The first smile creates a new affection, the laugh another; the recognition adds its tendril, the first step, the asking look, the sign of joy at being understood, the new plea for something desired, the attempt to do some manly act, - all add, one after another, a strand to the chords that bind the child to the parent's heart; we live in the joy of hope and bright expectation, - hope it will become a still greater object of pride, in increasing joy and delight. Thus the little one, in whom we live ourselves, binds itself, day by day, stronger and stronger to our hearts and affections, until it becomes a part of our existence, and its separation and death the most agonizing of all conceivable sorrow. Death, at all times, even under the least trying circumstances, is a sad thing, and leaves its mark deep in the memory of the living; but the death of a bright, cheerful, happy child, whose laugh has rung out sweet and clear as the song of the morning lark, and echoed through every room with a sweeter music; whose tottering steps and

prattling tongue ever gave joy to the household, and whose pleasant, gleeful mirth touched every ear, and brought a quick response, who gave

delight to all, and was really a well-spring of pleasure to the soul,-leaves an impression never to be effaced. It changes joy into sadness, and gives a gloomy, dark and sorrowful shade to everything that before was pleasant and agreeable. The doors creak louder on their hinges the unfrequented rooms are stiller, darker, gloomier- the wind has a deeper moan

-the very sunshine and the storm seem to speak in subdued tones. The vacant chair at the table, the empty crib, the little shoes on the shelf, the hat on the hook, the broken toy, the little wagon

all say "He is gone." "Dead" is written on the knobs of the doors, engraved on the windows, and stamped on everything. The trees, the flowers, the ripening fruit, and the waving harvest, echo back, "He is gone!" Tears start unbidden from the eyes, and the deepest affections of the soul gush forth in sorrow and anguish.

NATHANIEL R. STIMSON.

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