78

TO MY BROTHER IN HEAVEN.

Weeps her dew in the wild flowers, whose beautiful bloom

Seems most like the bloom of thy years.

A few days of sunshine, and then comes the blast
That fills the sad woods with its moan

The bloom from the cheek and the blossom is past,
And the spirit forever is flown.

Thou art happy now.

We would not call thee back

From thy home on that beautiful shore,

But patiently tread life's wearisome track,

Until life and its sorrows are o'er.

Then, this painful dream ended, we'll meet thee at last

In the beautiful land of the blest,

And forget all the trials and woes of the past

In the pleasures of infinite rest.

The soft winds shall sigh o'er thy dreamless sleep,
And the chirp of the merry bird,

At the shut of day, 'mid the twilight deep,

By the place of thy rest shall be heard.
Sweet odors that breathe from yon forests of pine,
Shall waft in the breeze from the glen;

But the love that once woke in that bosom of thine
Shall ne'er be awakened again!

We could not call thee back! no; soft be thy sleep,

And green be the turf o'er thy head!

"Twere better by far for the living to weep,

Than to mourn o'er the lot of the dead.

Thou art happy and blest 'mid that holy band

That look from heaven's beautiful shore.
Bear us, ye angels, to that sweet land,

When life and its sorrows are o'er.

"Christianity teaches us to moderate our passions; to temper our affections towards all things below; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under loss, whenever He who gave shall see fit to take away." -SIR WM. TEMPLE.

BEREAVEMENT.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

WHEN Some belovéds, 'neath whose eyelids lay
The sweet light of my childhood, one by one
Did leave me dark before the natural sun,
And I astonied fell, and could not pray,
A thought within me to myself did say,

"Is God less God that thou art mortal-sad?
Rise, worship, bless him! in this sackcloth clad
As in that purple!"-But I answer, Nay!
What child his filial heart in words conveys,
If him for very good his father choose

To smite? What can he, but, with sobbing breath,
Embrace th' unwilling hand which chasteneth?
And my dear Father, thinking fit to bruise,
Discerns in silent tears both prayer and praise.

"If you be afflicted, join prayer with that God would join his spirit with it. shall be not a whit the better, but shall

your correction, and beg by it Seek this in earnest, else you still endure the smart, and not

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THE EARLY DEAD.

reap the fruit thereof. Rejoice in Him who fails not, who alters not. He is still the same in himself, and to the sense of the soul that is knit to him, is then sweetest when the world is bitterest. When other comforts are withdrawn, the loss of them brings this great gain, so much the more of God and his love imparted, to make all up. They that ever found this could almost wish for things that others are afraid of. If we knew how to improve them, his sharpest visits would be his sweetest: thou wouldst be glad to catch a kiss of his hand while he is beating thee, or pulling away something from thee that thou lovest, and bless him while he is doing so."-LEIGHTON.

THE EARLY DEAD.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

IF it be sad to mark the bowed with age
Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb,
Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage

In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom,
O, what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem of the loved and young!

They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring
To the unfolding bud and scented rose,
Comes the pure freshness age can never bring,

And fills the spirit with a rich repose,

How shall we lay them in their final rest?
How pile the clods upon their wasting breast?

Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze;
A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky;
O'er the broad world Hope's smile incessant plays,
And scenes of beauty win th' enchanted eye:

How sad to break the vision, and to fold
Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould!

Yet this is life!-to mark, from day to day,
Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime,
Pass like the anthem of a breeze away,

Sinking in waves of death ere chilled by time,
Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed
Autumnal mildew o'er the rose-like red.

And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye
Be dimly thoughtful in its burning tears,
But should with rapture gaze upon the sky,

Through whose far depths the spirit's wing careers? There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung, Who fade from earth while yet their years are young.

IMPROVEMENT OF AFFLICTION.

REV. ROBERT HALL.

WE should be more anxious that our afflictions should benefit us than that they should be speedily removed from us; for they are intended to remove a far greater evil than any which they can occasion. It is, in reality, a most sparing and economical method which the divine Being employs, when he uses these, "our light afflictions," in order to remove our sins ; for sin is the great disease of our nature, which must

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MY MOTHER'S GRAVE,

be removed if we are to be made happy. It is far better that this disease should be expelled by the use of means, however painful, then that, by the withholding of those means, it should be increased, inflamed, and cause our destruction. We must be partakers of his holiness, that we may be of his happiness; and if it is true that "tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and hope maketh not ashamed," then are our afflictions, duly received, to be numbered among our greatest blessings. This, then, is the light in which you should accustom yourselves to view your afflictions-as commissioned by God; as merited by your sins; as the effect of perfect parental care; and with an earnest desire to derive the benefit designed in your sanctification.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

JAMES ALDRICH.

IN beauty lingers on the hills

The death smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instils
The softness of its rosy ray.
I watch the river's peaceful flow,
Here, standing by my mother's grave,
And feel my dreams of glory go

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.