should we meditate upon the termination of our journey! Should we not frequently converse with rapture of its many joys and entrancing delights,recount to each other, as often as opportunities will permit, the many heart-touching and soul-subduing expressions of a Father's love that have reached us from there, the countless lessons of wisest instruction in goodness and happiness, which he has sent us on the wings of his providence, by the pens of his prophets, and by the lips and in the examples of his Son? And should we not resolve, in humble gratitude, to walk in the pathway he has thus pointed out to us, and strewed with all the delights of holiness and the pleasures of well-doing?

Those who have gone before us to that delightful home, and to that benevolent and venerated Father, -the aged, who have been gathered, like the shock of grain into the garner, fully ripe for immortality; the middle aged, who have been plucked from the tree of life by the hand of death, in freshening bloom; the young, like just budding blossoms, opening their leaves to the dews and sunshine when they were transplanted, unwilted, to the fadeless Paradise above; the erring and the depraved, even, whom, in despite of all their faults, we dearly loved and feelingly compassionated, should we not often think of them, and rejoice at their holy and joyful destiny?

Yes; and the tear of gratitude should conglobe in the eye, with that brought there by their depar

ture.

In that bright home, where we shall again meet to enjoy them and our God, there is no change but for the better; no decay, no death, no parting, forevermore. There the sinful and vile, now washed white in the blood of the Lamb, will be restored to our embraces, purified and enrobed in holiness and bliss. They will love much; for to them, as to all, much will have been forgiven. We shall be able to love them wholly; for there will be nought in them from which to shrink back: to love them purely; for their affections, as well as our own, will be devoid of all impurity, all alloy.

There, too, will we be united, one family, with the great and good, of whom we have heard much, but never seen, the Howards, the Alfreds, the Newtons, the Washingtons of our race; the Pauls, the Luthers, the Priestleys, the Murrays; the great, and lovely, and holy females of ancient and modern ages, — all these will we know, and love, and admire, more and better than we could have known and loved them here on earth. And there, too, will be the countless hosts of others, great, and wise, and good as these, but whose virtues were known only to God and angels, until the veil of mortality was removed from between them and their kind.

May this glorious and consoling faith ever be in us a moral, disinfecting agent, to keep our minds and hearts pure from sensual desires, ignoble thoughts and inglorious aims. May we remember

what we are, whose we are, and tending, that we may live and act home and its destined inmates, sea, though in, above the world.”

whither we are

worthily of our

"like ships at

MY CHILD.

BY JULIA H. SCOTT.

"There is one who has loved me debarred from the day."

THE foot of spring is on yon blue-topt mountain,
Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree:
Her voice is heard, beside the swelling fountain,
Giving sweet tones to its wild melody.
From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses,
To greet, with smiles, the eye of grief and care:
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes,
And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere; -
I heed them not, my child.

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth,
The golden dandelion by its side;

The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. The hyacinth and polyanthus render,

From their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks, and half-blown lilacs tender Their grateful homage to the skies above ;I heed them not, my child.

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses,
And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers;
While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses,
Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers.

The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves; O! spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping,

And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves;'Tis naught to me, my child.

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter;
The school has sent its eldest inmates forth;
And now a smaller band comes dancing after,
Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth.
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending,
To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast;
Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending;
Ah! peace with her is no unusual guest;
Not so with me, my child.

All the day long I listen to the singing
Of the gay birds and winds among the trees;
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing

A tale of death and its dread mysteries.
Nature to me, the letter is that killeth,—
The spirit of her charms has passed away;
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth,—
Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; ·

Thou 'rt in the grave, my child.

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth,
I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light:
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth;
Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night.
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me,
Longing to lay my dust beside thy own;
O cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me!
Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ;-

Come back to me, my child.