WEEP NOT FOR HER.

WEEP not for her! - O she was far too fair, Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth! The sinless glory, and the golden air

Of Zion, seemed to claim her from her birth! A spirit wandering from its native zone, Which, soon discovering, took her for its own: Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! - Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and

bright;

Like flowers that know not what it is to die;
Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light;
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While Echo answers from the flowery brake:
Weep not for her!

TO A DEAD CHILD.

CHILD of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thy urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knowest, couldst return !

And why the wish? The pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep;
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.

THE LOST JEWEL.

DR. PAYSON, when engaged in paying pastoral visits to his spiritual flock, happened one day to enter "the house of mourning," and there he found a disconsolate mother, whose darling child had just been "taken from the evil to come," whom he thus addressed: “ Suppose, now, some one was making a beautiful crown for you to wear; and you knew it was for you, and that you was to receive it and wear it as soon as it should be done. Now, if the maker of it were to come, and, in order to make the crown more beautiful and splendid, were to take some of your jewels to put into it, should you be sorrowful and unhappy because they were taken away for a little while, when you knew they were gone to make up your crown?"

THE RECEPTION OF TRIALS.

THE spirit in which we receive trials either increases or diminishes their bitterness; fortitude and resignation disarm them of their sharpest darts, while anger and vindictiveness only augment their poignancy.

THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.

CEASE here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother, drowned in woe;
Now thy kind caresses pain me;
Morn advances - let me go.

See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away.

Lately launched, a trembling stranger, On the world's wild, boisterous flood; Pierced with sorrows, tossed with danger, Gladly I return to God.

Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee; Now my trembling heart find rest; Kinder arms than thine receive me ; Softer pillow than thy breast.

Weep not o'er these eyes that languish, Upward turning toward their home; Raptured they'll forget all anguish, While they wait to see thee come.

There, my mother, pleasures centre,
Weeping, parting, care or wo
Ne'er our Father's house shall enter;
Morn advances - let me go.

As through this calm, peaceful dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath,
To an everlasting morning,
Gently close my eyes in death.

Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
Though no language yet possessing,
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
Though again his voice I hear;
Rise! may every grace attend thee;
Rise! and seek to meet me there.

THE TRUE CONSOLER.

Он! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn and ask
Of him to be our friend!

WORDSWORTH.

THE LAMB WITHOUT.

WHENE'ER I close the door at night,
And turn the creaking key about,
A pang renewed assails my heart
I think my darling is shut out;

Think that, beneath these starry skies
He wanders, with his little feet;
The pines stand hushed in glad surprise,
The garden yields its tribute sweet.

Through every well-known path and nook
I see his angel footsteps glide,
As guileless as the Pascal Lamb
That kept the infant Saviour's side.

His earnest eye, perhaps, can pierce
The gloom in which his parents sit;
He wonders what has changed the house,
And why the cloud hangs over it.

He passes with a pensive smile, -
Why do they linger to grow old,
And what the burthen on their hearts?
On him shall sorrow have no hold.