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with her parents again at Windsor, before they perceived her health to be in a declining state; and meditated her removal to some place more congenial to her constitution. But before they could carry their purpose into effect, she was slightly visited with the typhus fever. From this she partially recovered; and her mother and she were intending to take a journey to London, that they might see some of the Preachers with whom they had been acquainted, and attend the services connected with the Conference, which was then sitting. She anticipated this journey with great delight: but the all-wise Disposer of events intended that she should take another journey, a journey of more importance, and from which she was not to return. The fever again assailed her, and that with increased violence; and in a few days terminated her mortal life. From the nature of her complaint she could not converse much; nor was it prudent that she should be allowed so to do: but she was evidently in a heavenly state of mind, and bore her afflictions with exemplary patience. She observed at the commencement of her illness, "If it were the will of God, I would rather die than live." And she employed the lucid intervals of her affliction in repeating such hymns as had a reference to the heavenly world. The hymn beginning,

"Who are these array'd in white,

Brighter than the noon-day sun?"

was a great favourite with her. During the second attack of the fever, she was asked by a friend who attended her if she was afraid to die. With a smile, which showed that such fear was a stranger to her breast, she replied, “O, no!” And when the same friend at another time asked her whether she would like to remain here or go to God, unable to speak, she pointed upwards with her finger, and smiled. Two days before her death, her father and her brother were called into her room, that she might give them her last charge. It seems that extraordinary strength had been given to her for the purpose; for, to the surprise of all around her, she rose up in bed, took their hands in hers, and with an earnestness which defies description entreated them to attend to their immortal interests. "Will you, will you," said she, "give your hearts to God, and be saved?" And with much appropriate scriptural exhortation did she beseech them to meet her in the realms of bliss. After talking a few minutes to them, she sank down on her pillow, and was not afterwards able to speak more than a few words at intervals. The day before her death, she prayed much, and sung the hymn beginning, "Being of beings, God of love;" and being asked by her friend if she was happy, she replied, "O, yes; very happy! I shall soon walk the streets of the New Jerusalem! Be ye faithful, that you may also meet me there!" On the last day of her earthly existence, as though she had seen angels beckon her away," and heard "Jesus bid her come," she exclaimed, "I am coming! I am coming!" and silently breathed out her soul to God, August 8th, 1828, in the twentieth year of her age.

In Mary Ann Nixon the graces and virtues of Christianity shone with an attractive lustre. She was a pattern of piety; an example to saints. Love and gratitude to God her Saviour, confidence in him, submission to his will, obedience to his commands, delight in his ordinances, and zeal for the honour of his name,→→ humility, meekness, gentleness, patience, temperance, and hea venly-mindedness,-justice, truth, fidelity, charity, mercy, and benevolence, were all sweetly combined in her character. Her example will long continue to shed its heavenly light and influ ence on those who had the honour and happiness of her acquaint

ance.

The Rev. A. Strachan, the former pastor of Miss Nixon, gives the following testimony to her excellencies:—“ I was well ocquainted with her general character; and can bear witness to the consistency of her conduct, and the spirituality of her conversation; the depth of her bumility, and the elevation of her joy; the sweetness of her disposition, and the disinterestedness of her motives; the fervour of her devotion, and the unweariedness of her zeal. Indeed, I have seldom met with a person, of her years, in whom were combined so many solid excellencies."

A few days after the death of Miss Nixon, her sister Frances, who was two years younger than herself, was taken ill of the same fever. Frances was also an amiable girl, and a very valuable assistant to her mother in domestic affairs. She was very early impressed with divine things, was brought to a knowledge of God, and joined the Methodist society before her sister. She was a steady member, and a useful collector for the Missions, and the Benevolent Society: yet she had not realized those attainments in religion which her sister had. She felt this keenly, at the commencement of her illness, and deeply lamented it. For some time her mind was in considerable distress. She sought the merey of God through Christ; and he soon appeared to her, manifested the light of his countenance, dispersed every cloud, and made her exceedingly happy. The fever continued to increase, her sufferings were great, and she was sometimes sorely harassed with temptation; but she was not forsaken of God, He appeared in every time of need, and sustained her in the confliet. She frequently requested that hymns should be sung, and prayer made with her; in which she heartily joined. On the morning of the last day that dawned on her in this world, she was very happy during singing and prayer, which were engaged in at her request. This was the Sabbath-day, August the 24th: on the evening of this day, her sister's funeral sermon was preached. She made some inquiries relative to it, of the friend that usually attended her, and who had been to hear it. She afterwards said, "I am happy,-so happy in God!" The fever came on with increased violence, and in about three hours her spirit took its flight, to join her sister's in the realms of bliss. They had lived happily together, and it pleased God that they should not be long separated by death.

On the day that Frances died, their father became ill; and, in six days, his spirit was hurried into the eternal world. There was hope in his death. At the commencement of his affliction, he was persuaded that he should not live. He felt unfit to die; but he sought the mercy of God, and requested that the word of God should be read to him, and prayer made for him. His spirit seemed humble and penitent. He was directed to the atoning blood of Christ; and the last words he was heard to speak were, "Happy! happy!" Thus were three out of a family of five called away in rapid succession. They all died in one month, and were all buried in one grave!

POETRY.

WILLIAM POLLARD.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. W. MUNRO, Methodist Missionary, who died at Sierra Leone, Western Africa, July 8th, 1829.

MUNRO is gone!-his warning voice no more
Shall rouse the sinner from his dangerous dream!
No more shall he unfold Jehovah's love

To fallen man; or urge the trembling soul
To cast its load of guilt, with humble faith,
At the Redeemer's feet. That tender heart,
Whose every pulse was warm'd with pious zeal,
Has now forgot to beat! Poor Africa,
To aid and succour thy benighted sons,
He deem'd no sacrifice, no pains, too great;
But cheerfully relinquish'd all. For thee,
For thee, he left his native land,—his home,-
His bosom friends, and each domestic tie!

Was it to revel in luxurious feasts,
To share the honours of some splendid hall,
To sail down pleasure's stream in idle mirth?
Or did the voice of Mammon urge him on,
To bid a long adieu to Albion's shores?
Ah, no! he knew full well, that arduous toil,
Painful privations, and distressing care,
The Missionary's humble path attend.
He knew thy sultry shores with dire disease

Were fraught; that noxious dews and deadly vapours,
The offspring of the soil, too oft, alas,

Their poison spread through the athletic frame!
Yes: and he knew the fever's burning touch
Might reach his heart,-drain every vital juice,
And in a few short hours his healthy form

Might sink in death's firm grasp, far from his home,
And from the friends he loved; his languid eye

Be closed by strangers' hands! He knew;
But did he shrink? Ah, no! a nobler aim,
Than ease, or wealth, or power, or splendour's glare,
Inspired his soul,-love for the fallen race!
A wish to preach to all the saving power

Of Jesu's blood, his chief concern: that blood,
He knew, had cleans'd his spirit from all sin;
And daily he rejoiced in hope of bliss

Beyond the grave, in yon bright realms of peace.

For Afric's sons he felt a brother's love;
And in the strength of grace divine resolved
To take up every cross, brave every danger,
And to the Missionary's God confide
His life, his all! Then with a cheerful voice
He calmly bade his weeping friends adieu,
And left his native shores; but not alone;
Another zealous youth, whose fervent breast
Glow'd at the recollection of the woes
The injured African had long endured

From men whose names disgrace Britannia's isle,-
And the pure wish to guide his wandering feet
From the deep labyrinths of error's night,
And point to regions of unclouded day,-
Induced him unreluctantly to cross

The watery waste. Friendship in closest bonds
United each, listening attentively

To every sigh that wounded Nature heaved,
And kindly strove to mitigate each pang.
But while they nobly sacrificed each tie,
And shrunk not from the task; yet think ye that
The thoughts of distant friends, parental ties,
And much-loved scenes, would never rend their breasts?
The dangers of the sea they safely pass'd,
And cheerfully commenced their blest employ.
Nor did they toil in vain; the smile of Heaven
Crown'd their endeavours, and their toil repaid.
Awhile they labour'd with increasing zeal,
And stood unhurt amid the shafts of death:
But, O lamented Peck! thy fragile form
Received the fatal dart, then droop'd and died!
Farewell, departed saint! thy happy soul
Obtain'd an early rest,-
-a sure reward.
But tell me, ye to whom has been assign'd
The painful task to mark the latest sigh
Of some expiring friend; tell, if you can,
What were the pangs that rent the heart of him
Whose fate I mourn, as he with anxious care
Soothed the last hours of his beloved colleague?
Say, what were the emotions of his soul,

While he, with faltering voice and bleeding heart,
Committed to the dreary, silent tomb
The cold remains of his lamented friend?
For though he was convinced the happy spirit
Had safely reach'd yon realms of pure delight,
And bow'd submissive to the stroke; yet, say,
Could frail humanity look on unmoved?
Ah, no! he felt,-but here description fails!

Alas! how soon those weeping eyes were closed
In the long sleep of death! That throbbing heart
Within a few short days has ceased to beat!
But could the king of terrors fright his soul?
Nature, exhausted, to his sceptre bow'd;
But the pure spirit, arm'd through Jesu's blood,
Repell'd his poison'd dart,-and flew to heaven,
And join'd his friend in songs of endless praise!

Then say, departed friend, shall I lament
Thy early doom? Methinks I hear thee say,
"No; rather strive to run the Christian's course
With firm, undaunted step; then shall we meet
Where pain, disease, and sorrow are unknown."
Greenwich.
S. WILKINSON.

THE BLIND BOY.

I stood one bright morn on the brow of a mountain,
And gazed on the beautiful landscape below;
Here a bright sunny mead, bere a silvery fountain,

Shone forth as its rippling waves onward would flow;
And my spirit seem'd raised from the things of this earth,
And revell'd in scenes to which fancy gave birth.
The bright orb of day in full glory was shining,

Diffusing its life-giving beams all around;

And Nature, while scatt'ring her favours, was smiling,
And gladness and pleasure were every where found;
And I cried, "Who could gaze on a scene such as this,
And not be absorb'd in the magic of bliss!"

A deep sigh was the echo which stole on my ear:
I started, and turn'd from the brilliant scene;
For my heart it was chill'd to think woe was so near,
When all nature seem'd rapt in a joy so serene;
And discover'd, alas! that this heart-rending sigh
Had its source in the breast of a boy who stood by.
My gay spirit was check'd ;—but I cried with surprise,-
"Canst thou look on a landscape with charms so replete,
And not be inspired by those bright sunny skies

With a joy which would all other passions defeat?"
The boy's answer was short, but it gave to my mind
A thrill of keen anguish; 'twas," Alas, I am blind!"

M. A. J.

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