Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones! I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me. Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall— Fill at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from towã. She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile- She had an edication, an' that was good for her; So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done— But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two. An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, An' then I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me aboutSo they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. Over the hill to the poor-house-my child'rn dear, good-bye! Will. M. Carleton. THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD. BESIDE her mother, sat a darling child, Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom And as its pale beams trembled in the room, "Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head, And lay it gently on your own dear breast; Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west "Dee, mother, that bright star is almost gone! I feel so well-the little hymn, the same The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer, Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear; Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain Was softly lingering on the hallowed name The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue! But she was dead-her heart had broken with her song! TRIUMPH OF FAITH. COME, now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to the bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what peace a Christian can die? Watch the last gleams of thought which stream from his dying eyes. Do you see anything like apprehension? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist thickens and rests upon the objects which have hitherto engaged his observation. The countenances of his friends become more and more indistinct. The sweet expressions of love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His ear wakes no more at the well-known voice of his children; and the soothing accents of tender affection die away, unheard, upon his decaying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is drawing to its close; and the curtain is descending which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no longer interested in all that is done under the sun. Oh! that I could now open to you the recesses of his soul; that I could reveal to you the light which darts into the chambers of his understanding! He approaches the world which he has so long seen in faith. The imag ination now collects its diminished strength, and the eye of faith opens wide. Friends! do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, around this bed of death. Why are you so still and silent? Fear not to move; you cannot disturb the last visions which entrance this holy spirit. Your lamentations break not in upon the songs of seraphs which enwrap his hearing in ecstasy. Crowd, if you choose, around his couch; he heeds you not,—already he sees the spirits of the just advancing together to receive a kindred soul. Press him not with importunities; urge him not with alleviations. Think you he wants now these tones of mortal voices,— these material, these gross consolations? No! He is going to add another to the myriads of the just that are every moment crowding into the portals of heaven! He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you, he leaves you, weeping children of mortality to grope about a little longer among the miserics and sensualities of a worldly life. Already he cries to you from the regions of bliss. Will you not join him there? Will you not taste the sublime joys of faith? There are your predecessors in virtue; there, too, are places left for your contemporaries. There are seats for you in the assembly of the just made perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where is Jesus,—the Mediator of the new covenant,—and God, the Judge of all. J. S. Buckminster. AN APPEAL TO THE "SEXTANT" FOR AIR. O SEXTANT of the meetin house, wich sweeps And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fires, And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths; But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin in short, its jest's as "free as are" out dores, U shet 500 men, wimmin and children, Some is fevery, some is scrofilous, some has bad teeth But every 1 on 'em brethes in and out, and out and in, Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. Why then they must brethe it all over agin, And then agin, and so on till each has took it down O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens. Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe; Ded for want of breath, why Sextant, when we dy, (It luvs to come in where it can git warm) As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of. |