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.

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

LONGFELLOW.

YES, AS A CHILD.

"Not as a child shall we again behold her."

Longfellow.

O, SAY not so! how shall I know my darling,
If changed her form, and veil'd with shining hair?
If, since her flight, has grown my little starling,
How shall I know her there?

On memory's page, by viewless fingers painted,
I see the features of my angel-child;

She passed away, ere sin her soul had taintedPassed to the undefiled.

O, say not so! for I would clasp her, even
As when below she lay upon my breast:

And dream of her as my fair bud in Heaven,

Amid the blossoms blest.

My little one was like a folded lily,
Sweeter than any on the azure wave;

But night came down, a starless night, and chilly;
Alas! we could not save!

Yes, as a child, serene and noble poet,

(O, Heaven were dark, were children wanting there!)

I hope to clasp my bud as when I wore it;
A dimpled baby fair.

Though years have flown, toward my blue-eyed

daughter

My heart yearns ofttimes with a mother's love, Its never-dying tendrils now enfold her,

Enfold my child above.

E'en as a babe, my little blue-eyed daughter,
Nestle and coo upon my heart again;

Wait for thy mother by the river-water,—

It shall not be in vain!

Wait as a child,—how shall I know my darling, If changed her form, and veil'd with shining

hair?

If, since her flight, has grown my little starling, How shall I know her there?

FANNY FALES.