have been? Rather let me say, what a glorious being is he now! Seven years there have - been more and better than seventy times seven thousand years on earth. I know it. God help me to admit that it is better far, for him, for me, for all, that he should have spent them there than here. For what attainments must that soul have made that for these seven years past has been pursuing the career of heavenly study - the mysteries of celestial learning and celestial love! I do not know whether he prefers to be with seraphs or cherubim the former are said to love and the latter to know the more. I think that he wanders with both, and finds congenial spirits in John and Paul. He has been seven years with them, and with the Saviour who took him to his arms from ours. Now he must be far advanced in knowledge and in holiness. With such companions, such instructors, how wise and good he must be! If he should come back to us, he could find no company with whom he would be at home. Within the last year, one whom he revered and loved, his aged grandsire, has gone to heaven. The child has welcomed him there: taken him by the hand, and led him to fountains of living waters, and charmed his ear with heavenly melodies, and become his teacher in

the things of the kingdom. It must be brighter and sweeter now for both, that they can sit together in heavenly places, and speak of the wonders of earth and heaven, as they now appear to their opened eyes. Sixty years were between them when they were here together: there the child had seven years the start of his grandsire, and leads him upward to the sources of Infinite wisdom and love. I should be glad to see them there. I should have been glad to see them when they met in the streets of the New Jerusalem! to have heard the cry of joy from the child, as he flew into the patriarch's bosom, and hung on his breast, and kissed his brow with glory crowned.

Well, we shall all be there soon. Thank God for that. A few more days of darkness and the morning cometh, the morning of eternal day.

"Then let our songs abound,

And every tear be dry;

We 're marching through Immanuel's ground,
To fairer worlds on high."

This shall be the last time that we will keep the anniversary of our child's release from earth with mourning. Thanks be unto God who giveth us the victory over death; not our own

death only, for that is one of the least of trials; but over the death of those we love; causing us to triumph in tribulation; so that we can say, The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

REV. SAMUEL IRENEUS PRIME.

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

O! WHO shall tell what fearful

pangs

That mother's heart are rending,

As o'er her infant's little grave

Her wasted form is bending;
From many an eye that weeps to-day,
Delight may beam to-morrow;

But she her precious babe is not;

--

And what remains but sorrow?

Bereaved one! I may not chide
Thy tears and bitter sobbing, —
Weep on! 't will cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing:
But be not thine such grief as theirs,
To whom no hope is given, -

Snatched from the world, its sins and snares,

Thy infant rests in heaven.

BISHOP DOANE.

ON THE DEATH OF A SON,

I NEVER trusted to have lived
To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,
It ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head shouldst lay,
And live, beloved, when I was gone,
For many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried

Thy dying eyes to close;

And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,

With pain and grief oppressed,
And thou wast with the sainted,
Where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now;
But let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well,

Is earlier blessed than mine;
My faith may darken as it will,
I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life

Can never reach thee more.

W. B. O. PEABODY.

THE LITTLE COFFIN.

'T WAS a tiny, rosewood thing,
Ebon bound, and glittering
With its stars of silver white,
Silver tablet, blank and bright,
Downy pillowed, satin lined,
That I, loitering, chanced to find
Mid the dust, and scent and gloom
Of the undertaker's room,
Waiting, empty-ah! for whom?

Ah! what love-watched cradle bed
Keeps to-night the nestling head,
Or on what soft, pillowing breast
Is the cherub form at rest,
That ere long, with darkened eye,
Sleeping to no lullaby,

Whitely robed, and still, and cold,
Pale flowers slipping from its hold,
Shall this dainty couch enfold?

Ah! what bitter tears shall stain
All this satin sheet like rain,
And what towering hopes be hid
'Neath this tiny coffin lid,
Scarcely large enough to bear
Little words that must be there,