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sionally entertained that his days might be prolonged; but in these hopes he did not participate.“ Dr. J-," said he to his almost broken-hearted mother, says, he thinks I am better, and that I may recover ; but I shall never be better in this world : I know I shall die.” “ Would you rather live than die ? ” inquired his parent. He replied, “I wish to live, that I may have it in my power to make you, my dear mother, some return for all your tender care of me. Otherwise, I wish to die.” “Why so ?” “ Because I should go to heaven, and be with my brother John, and see my grandfather and grandmother, and aunts, whom I never saw in this world.” “ How do you know you should go to heaven? On what do you ground your expectation ?”. " Because I love God; and I know he loves rne. I know that Jesus Christ died to atone for my sins; and that God, for Christ's sake, has pardoned them all.” On his mother expressing a hope that he might yet be spared, he said, “ Nothing is too difficult for God to do : for in the days of his flesh, he healed the sick, restored the dying, and raised the dead.” From this time he appeared to get better ; but on the morning of Feb. 25th, 1829, he suddenly grew worse ; and, on the 28th, breathed out his soul into the hands of his gracious Redeemer, aged eleven years and fourteen days.

Such was the life, and such the death, of this lovely boy. He has left behind him a sweet savour, a blessed testimony to the truth of God, a bright example to his surviving brothers and sisters, and to every youthful reader of this memoir. He was the comfort, the delight, and the hope of his bereaved parents, to whom he never caused a moment's pain, but on account of his affilio. tion. They bow to the stroke, with humble submission to the will of Him whose right it is to give and to take away. They are pressing to the issues of death ; and have a joyful hope of meeting him again, where God shall wipe away every tear, and sorrow and sigh. ing shall flee away.

RICHARD GIBBS.

POETRY.
THE SERVANT'S HYMN.

BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.

O God of Israel, deign to smile

With pitying love on me;
And bless my hours of lonely toil,

And raise my heart to thee.
Then, happy in my lowly state,

I never can repine:
I'll envy not the rich and great,

If thou confess me thine.
Let others mourn their humble lot,

But I will work and sing ;
For, though the world regard me not,
My Father is a King.

From His bright palace in the skies,

He sees me where I am ;
And soon He'll call on me to rise,

And bid me welcome home.

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Thou’RT bearing hence thy roses,

Glad Summer ; fare thee well! Thou ’rt singing thy last melodies

In every wood and dell.
But ere the golden sunset

Of thy latest lingering day,
O ! tell me, o'er this checker'd earth,

How hast thou pass'd away?
Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly

Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers

of the sky : And brightly in the forests,

To the wild deer wandering free;
And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers,

To the happy murmuring bee :
But how to human bosoms,

With all their hopes and fears,
And thoughts that make them eagle wings,

To pierce the unborn years ?
Sweet Summer! to the captive

Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves,

And the blue rejoicing streams ;To the wasted and the weary

On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies,

That changed with every sound ;-
To the sailor on the billows,

In longings, wild and vain,
For the gushing founts and breezy hills,

And the homes of earth again !
And unto me, glad Summer!

How hast thou flown to me?
My chainless footstep nought hath kept

From thy haunts of song and glee,

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,

In memories of the dead,
In shadows, from a troubled heart,

O'er thy sunny pathway shed;
In brief and sudden strivings,

To fling a weight aside,
*Midst these thy melodies have ceased,

And all thy roses died.
But O! thou gentle Summer !

If I greet thy flowers once more,
Bring me again the buoyancy
Wherewith

my

soul should soar ! Give me to hail thy sunshine,

With song and spirit free ; Or in a purer air than this

May that next meeting be!

AWAKE, THOU THAT SLEEPEST.

BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH

AWAKE from the slumber of sin !

Arise from the death of despair !
Call, call on thy God, His compassion to win ;

His wrath is too dreadful to dare :
O thou who art resting secure

On the world and its guilt-loving ways, What hand will be strong, or what heart can endure.

Wlien the fire of His vengeance shall blaze? Thou bearest a name, as of those

Who live in His service and love ; But dead is thy soul in its fatal repose,

White tempests are darkening above.
O rouse thee! and Christ shall bestow

The beam of his light-giving eye:
Then guidance and grace will attend thee below,

And glory await thee on bigh.
Thy flesh may repose in the grave,

While hope bids thy spirit rejoice;
The Lord will remember the form that he gave,

And dust shall revive at His voice.
As blossoms in spring-time shoot forth,

From roots that were rugged and cold,
So thou shalt arise from thy dwelling of earth,

And heaven in its beauty behold.

James Nichols, Printer, 2, Warwick Square, London.

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