THE HAPPY BAND.

AROUND the throne of God in heaven,
Thousands of children stand-
Children whose sins are all forgiven,
A holy, happy band,

Singing, Glory, glory.

In flowing robes of spotless white,
See every one arrayed;
Dwelling in everlasting light,

And joys that never fade,
Singing, Glory, glory.

What brought them to that world above?
That heaven so bright and fair,
Where all is peace, and joy, and love;
How came those children there?
Singing, Glory, glory.

Because the Saviour shed his blood,

To wash away their sin;

Bathed in that pure and precious flood, Behold them white and clean,

Singing, Glory, glory.

COMFORT.

'BOATMAN, boatman! my brain is wild, As wild as the rainy seas;

My poor little child, my sweet little child, Is a corpse upon my knees.

No holy choir to sing so low-
No priest to kneel in prayer,
No tire-woman to help me sew
A cap for his golden hair.”

Dropping his oars in the rainy sea,
The pious boatman cried,
"Not without Him who is life to thee,
Could the little child have died!

"His grace the same, and the same His power,
Demanding our love and trust,
Whether He makes of the dust a flower,
Or changes a flower to dust.

"On the land and the water, all in all,
The strength to be still, or pray,
To blight the leaves in their time to fall,
Or light up the hills with May."

ALICE CAREY.

LEAVE THE RESULT WITH GOD.

SUPPOSE, now, there should be a mother, always uneasy and solicitous about her child, when it was in health, or sitting over it when in sickness, restless and anxious, trying this remedy, and that, without reason and without hope, just because she cannot give him up ;suppose, I say, that God should come to the bedside, and say to her, "Anxious mother, —I was taking care of your child, but since you are so restless and uneasy about it, I will give the case up to you, if you will take it. There is a great question to be decided;· shall that child recover, or die? I was going to best way for yourself and him.

decide it in the

But since you cannot trust me, you may decide it yourself. Look upon him, then, as he lies there suffering, and then look forward as far as you can into futurity; see as much as you can of his life here, if you allow him to live; and look forward to eternity, to his eternity and yours. Get all the light you can, and then tell me whether you are really ready to take the responsibility of deciding the question, whether he shall live or die. Since you are not willing to allow me to decide it, I will leave you to decide it yourself."

What would be the feelings of a mother, if God should thus withdraw from the sick bed of her child, and leave the responsibility of the case in her hands alone! Who would dare to exercise the power, if the power were given, or say to a dying child, “you shall live, and on me shall be the responsibility?" Then let us all leave to God to decide. Let us be wise, and prudent, and faithful in all our duties, but never, for a moment, indulge in an anxious thought; it is rebellion. Let us rather throw ourselves on God. Let us say to Him, that we do not know what is best, either for us, or our children, and ask Him to do with us just as He pleases. Then we shall be at peace at all times, when disease makes its first attack, when the critical hours approach, by which the question of life or death is to be decided, and even when the last night of the little patient's sufferings has come, and we see the vital powers gradually sinking, in their fearful struggle with death.

JACOB ABBOTT.

RESIGNATION.

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 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 mist 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.