There was a dead silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, and tried to go on, but in vain. He closed the book, and kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow broke through his usual formal reverence, and his language flowed forth with a deep and sorrowful pathos which I shall never forget. The God so much reverenced, so much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present help in time of trouble."

My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the departed one. He uncovered the face. It was set with the seal of death; but O, how surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life was gone, but that pure, transparent face was touched with a mysterious, triumphant brightness, which seemed like the dawning of heaven.

My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt the beauty of what he gazed on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his feelings. He left the room unconsciously, and sat in the front door. The morning was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the birds were singing merrily, and little Edward's pet squirrel was frolicking about the door. My uncle watched him as he ran up one tree and then down, and up another, and then over the fence, whisking his brush, and chattering just as if nothing was the matter. With a deep sigh uncle Abel broke forth: "How happy that creature is! Well, the Lord's will be done."

That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the lamentations of all who had known him. Years have passed since then, and all that is mortal of my uncle has long since been gathered to his fathers; but his just and upright spirit has entered the glorious liberty of the sons of God. Yes, the good man may have had opinions which the philosophical scorn, and weaknesses at which the thoughtless smile; but death shall change him into all that is enlightened, wise, and refined; for he shall awake in "His likeness," and "be satisfied.”

XXX.THE PILOT.

BAYLY.

[Thomas Haynes Bayly, an English poet, born 1797, died 1839, was the author of many graceful and popular songs.]

"O, PILOT, 'tis a fearful night;

There's danger on the deep;

I'll come and pace the deck with thee;
I do not dare to sleep."

"Go down," the sailor cried, "go down,
This is no place for thee;
Fear not; but trust in Providence,

Wherever thou mayst be."

"Ah, pilot, dangers often met
We all are apt to slight;

And thou hast known these raging waves

But to subdue their might."

"It is not apathy," he cried,

"That gives this strength to me; Fear not; but trust in Providence, Wherever thou mayst be.

"On such a night the sea ingulfed
My father's lifeless form;
My only brother's boat went down

In just so wild a storm.

And such, perhaps, may be my fate;

But still I say to thee,

Fear not; but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayst be."

7

XXXI. THE USE OF FLOWERS.

MRS. HOWITT.

GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small;
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours;
For luxury, medicine, and for toil,
And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night;-

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,

And in the silent wilderness

Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not;
Then wherefore had they birth?

To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth;

To comfort man, to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim;

For who so careth for the flowers,
Will much more care for him.

XXXII. -THE ADOPTED CHILD.

MRS. HEMANS.

"WHY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountains is bleak and wild
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall:
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,

Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture forever streams.”

“O, green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long, bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme;

And the rocks where the heathflower blooms they know.
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go!"

"Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell;

Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;

Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps which the wandering breezes tune;

And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,

Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard."

"My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,

A

song of the hills, far more sweet than all;

She sings it, under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamed last night of that music low.
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go!"

"Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest;
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,

And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”

"Is mother
my
from her home away?
gone
But I know that my brothers are there at play;
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well,

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow.
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go!"

"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now;

They sport no more on the mountain's brow;

They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,

For thy cabin home is a lonely spot."

hill?

"Are they gone, all gone from the
sunny
But the bird and the blue fly rove o'er it still,
And the red deer bound in their gladness free,
And the turf is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow.
Lady, kind lady! O, let me go!"