hunble, meek, and believing frame of mind. It was indeed a trying effort; but God carried me through surprisingly. I introduced some very interesting papers, which I have found amongst her memoranda, in her own handwriting. Her last letter to me was-Tell my son, I am going directly to happiness.'

"Never was there a more delightful and heavenly countenance than hers, as she lay in her coffin: it combined every sentiment which the most devout mind could desire: love-joy-peace -gentleness-goodness-faith-meekness. -charity, all shone serenely bright. I followed her to her grave, in Lancaster churchyard, where she lies under a sycamore-tree, amid the magnificent landscape of sea, mountains, rivers, castle, and church, around. You remember its high beauties. But you very imperfectly know the high qualities of head and heart which your grandmamma possessed-I never met with her equal at the same age. I occupy her little room, adjoining her bed-room, by day; and it is a great consolation to me to sit in her arm-chair and think of her, and read her papers on various subjects. There you and I took leave of her in November last-but, alas! her place knoweth her no more! I look out of the window, at the grand range of snowcapt mountains, which are now beautiful in the extreme. I had no conception of the winter beauties of these hills; - Lansdale Piles, Rydal Head, Hill Bell, Helvellyn, &c. &c. all finely illuminated with snow sunshine, in diversified shades. And then I think of my dear mother, and how she enjoyed their characteristic grandeur.

"Letters pour in daily from all parts of England, condoling with us in our great loss. My

mother was loved and honoured most extensively. Dear woman! for forty-seven years have proved thy affection, and can trace, from earliest infancy, the tokens of thy worth. May I follow thee in humility, faith, and love; and cherish thy memory with gratitude and honour !"

MR. RICHMOND'S ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF HIS CHILD.

In the spring of 1821, Mr. Richmond lost his infant child. He gives an account of this event, in a letter to his daughter; and he composed a few verses, to soothe the feelings of the mother, as well as to express his own.

"DEAR Mary,-Our dear delicate baby has taken his flight to a happier world!-I write beside his unspeakably beautiful remains. Of all my twelve babes, I never clung to one like this-perhaps, because I never expected his life. He was formed for a higher state than this, and is taken away from the evil to come. He had an inflammation on the chest for a few days. He died in my arms-lovelier than the loveliest, calmer than the calmest. His previously languid eye suddenly illumined into heavenly brightness and vigour : it looked at me with full intelligence-seemed to say,' Farewell! I am going to Jesus'—and he was gone."

HYMN FOR AN INFANT'S FUNERAL.
"Hark! how the angels, as they fly,
Sing through the regions of the sky;
Bearing an infant in their arms,
Securely freed from sin's alarms :—

"Welcome, dear babe, to Jesu's breast-
For ever there in joy to rest :
Welcome to Jesu's courts above,
To sing thy great Redeemer's love!

"We left the heavens and flew to earth,
To watch thee at thy mortal birth:
Obedient to thy Saviour's will,

We stay'd to love and guard thee still.

"We thy protecting angels came,
To see thee bless'd in Jesus' name;
When the baptismal seal was given,
To mark thee, child, an heir of heaven.

"When the resistless call of death
Bade thee resign thy infant breath-
When parents wept, and thou didst smile,
We were thy guardians all the while.

"Now with the lightning's speed, we bear
The child committed to our care;
With anthems such as angels sing,
We fly to bear thee to our King.

"Thus sweetly borne, he flies to rest;
We know 't is well-nay more, 't is best.
When we our pilgrim's path have trod,
Oh! may we find him with our God!

ON THE DEATH OF A LOVELY INFANT.

WERT thou a stranger from the world of bliss? Some little seraph wand'ring from thy sphere, Which came to tarry for a night in this,

And with the light of morn to disappear?

Tell us, sweet babe, what made thee lose thy way
Amidst those stars which deck the azure sky?
Tell us, sweet babe, why with the morning's ray
Thy spirit wing'd again its flight on high?
Did something vex thee in this world below,
Or did some angel trace thy wand'ring path?
And to prevent thy days and nights of woe,
Allured thee back beyond the stream of death.
Yet, thou art happy, though thy mould'ring bark
Must lie for ages on time's stormy shore,
Where all is lone, and desolate, and dark,
But where its loudest tempests vex no more.
Yes, thou art happy, and thy pure delight
Recalls no more thy silent wand'rings here;
For every sin of that short fleeting night,

Was laid on one, and paid with many a tear.
Oh! 't was enough, poor wand'rer of an hour,
To touch time's verge and breathe its very sigh;
To make thee pass death's vale, whose dark'ning
lower

Must open up the portals of the sky.

WEIR.

THEY ONLY CAN BE SAID TO POSSESS A CHILD FOR EVER, WHO HAVE LOST ONE IN INFANCY.

OUR beauteous child we laid amidst the silence of the dead,

We heap'd the earth, and spread the turf above the cherub head,

We turn'd again to sunny life, to other ties as

dear,

And the world thought us comforted when we have dried the tear.

And time has roll'd its onward tide, and in its ample range,

Has pour'd along the happiest paths, vicissitude and change;

The flexile forms of infancy their earliest leaves have shed,

And the tall and 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 warrior men, 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.

And do we mourn the other change which mocks our memory here?

Ah! no, 'tis but the answer'd 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, an 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.