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WORDS OF COMFORT.

** AND when we couple with this the known disposition of our great Forerunner, the love that He manifested to children on earth, how He suffered them to approach His person, and lavishing endearment and kindness upon them in the streets of Jerusalem, told His dis

ciples, that the presence and company of such

as these in heaven formed one ingredient of the joy that was set before Him; tell us if Christianity does not throw a pleasing radiance around an infant's tomb? And should any parent who hears us, feel softened by the touching remembrance of a light that twinkled a few short months under his roof, and at the end of its little period expired, we cannot think that we venture too far, when we say, that he has only to persevere in the faith, and in the following of the gospel, and that very light will again shine upon him in heaven. The blossom which withered here upon its stalk, has been transplanted there to a place of endurance; and there it will then gladden that eye which now weeps out the agony of an affection that has been sorely wounded; and in the name of Him who, if on earth, would have wept along with

them, do we bid all believers present, to sorrow not even as others which have no hope, but to take comfort in the thought of that country where there is no sorrow and no separation.

CHALMERS

DUTY IN SEASONS OF AFFLICTION.

WHO can say, even after the severest loss, I have no duties, no cares, in life remaining? Much less can a tender mother say it, who has still so many looking to her advice, and what is almost more, to her example. It is not the smallest part of the good that you may do them, to let them see what effect great trials have upon your mind, and that Christianity enables you to bear up against such a stroke.

HANNAH MORE.

SORROW.

HE that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held instrusive, and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

HENRY TAYLOR.

A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.

LEIGH HUNT says, "Those who have lost an infant, are never, as it were, without an infant child. They are the only persons who in one sense retain it always, and they furnish other parents with the same idea. The other children grow up to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality. This one alone is rendered an immortal child."

A FATHER'S GRIEF.

CAN anything better express the utter desolation of a father's heart than the touching, heart-rending exclamation of the King of Israel, which is engraven upon a tomb in the cemetery of Pere le Chaise, near Paris?

Mon fils, mon fils!

Plut à Dieu que je fusse
Mort moi-même pour toi!

OUR LITTLE SPOT OF LAND.

We have a little spot of land, (I mean my wife and I,

For we are partners joint on earth,

Where our possessions lie :)

Just o'er the village-green 't is found.
Close by a shady dell,

Where silence reigns-except when death
Rings out a solemn knell.

We have no title-deed of land

Besides this narrow spot;

Others can boast their ample farms;
We have this little lot;

The grass waves sweetly o'er it when
The summer air is bland;

Tis worth-'t is worth -
Our little spot of land.

- we cannot rate

We've read of islets far away,
Where balmy gales blow free;
Fair islets of the earth that lie
Like emeralds on the sea;
But not for these far distant isles,
By spicy breezes fanned,

Would we exchange this humble claim-
Our little spot of land.

There's Ind beyond the rolling main,
Renowned for jewels bright;

And yet with all her treasures told,
Her pearls and gems of light,

Her mines of wealth and sparkling streams
That roll o'er golden sand,

She charms us not-when once we view Our little spot of land.

Nay, bring the gold of every clime,

The wealth of every shore; Let ocean yield her riches upAnd lay them at our door:

Then swell the pile a thousand fold

By some enchanter's wand;

The whole can never buy of us
Our little spot of land.

Ah, no! A dearer treasure this
To hearts that once have bled,
Though neither pearls nor rubies lie
Within its grassy bed;

'Tis all the land we 've title to,

And this deep sorrow gave;

Our tears have watered it as rain,

It is our infant's grave.

THE HAPPY HOME.

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