Alas! in these days of degeneracy, parents much more frequently witness the vices of their children, than their virtues. And even should your children prove amiable and promising, you might live to be the wretched witness of their sufferings. Some parents have felt unutterable agonies of this kind. When God may have taken the lamented objects of your affection from the evil to come. extraordinary calamities are coming on the world, He frequently hides some of His feebler children in the grave. Surely, at such a portentous period, it is happier for such as are prepared, to be lodged in that peaceful mansion, than to be exposed to calamities and distresses here. Thus intimates the prophet Jeremiah, "Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away; for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." It was in a day when the faith and patience of the saints were peculiarly tried, that the voice from heaven said, "Write, blessed are the dead, which die in the Lord, from henceforth." FLAVEL. TO A DEPARTED CHILD. I YIELD thee unto higher spheres ; I know thou hast escaped the blight And yet thy little sunny life The sunshine from our house is gone, And from our hearts their peace and joy; We feel so terribly alone Without thee, dearest boy! Thou mad'st us feel how very fair God's earth could be, and taught us love; And in life's tapestry of care A golden figure wove. Brave as we will our hearts to bear, We lie all prostrate,—cannot feel We blindly wail, for we are maimed He lifts us up, - all bleeding, lamed, And shattered by the blast. He asks," And would you wish him back, "No! no!" the spirit makes reply, "Not back to earthly chance and pain;" "Yet ah!" the shattered senses cry, "Would he were here again!" He was so meshed within our love Yet let us suffer; he is freed, And on our tears a bridge of light To joys beyond our sight. WILLIAM W. STORY. EPITAPH FROM AN IRISH COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. A LITTLE spirit slumbers here, the young flower faded And died—the grave its sweetness shaded. Fair boy! thou shouldst have wept for me, Not I have had to mourn o'er thee; Yet not long shall this sorrowing beThose roses I have planted round, To deck thy dear and sacred ground, When spring-gales next those roses wave They'll blush upon thy mother's grave. 19 LITTLE CHILDREN KNOCKING AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. HARK! at heaven's crystal gates All her soul with rapture bounding; For her holy life on earth, To receive three babes in heaven, A timid hand at first essays "I am lonely, I am lonely! Now I see no darling brother, But the angel, with caresses, And the young immortal blesses, Saved from sorrow and from sin. |