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, 66 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 me. 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 affliction. 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 sighing shall flee away. RICHARD GIBBS. POETRY. THE SERVANT'S HYMN. BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. O GOD of Israel, deign to smile I never can repine: I'll envy not the rich and great, Let others mourn their humble lot, For, though the world regard me not, 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, But ere the golden sunset Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 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, 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, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And unto me, glad Summer! My chainless footstep nought hath kept Thou hast flown in wayward visions, But O! thou gentle Summer! AWAKE, THOU THAT SLEEPEST. BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. AWAKE from the slumber of sin ! O thou who art resting secure On the world and its guilt-loving ways, What hand will be strong, or what heart can endure, When the fire of His vengeance shall blaze? Thou bearest a name, as of those Who live in His service and love; The beam of his light-giving eye: Thy flesh may repose in the grave, While hope bids thy spirit rejoice; As blossoms in spring-time shoot forth, James Nichols, Printer, 2, Warwick Square, London. |