keep you from murmuring, and that you shall have to glory in your tribulation and infirmity, while the power of Christ is manifested thereby. ERSKINE, THE HAPPY SPIRIT. "Weep not, my mother, weep not,-I am blest, But must leave heaven if I return to thee; For I am where the weary are at rest, The wicked cease from troubling.-Come to me!" Old Epitaph. "WHY do ye weep?-to know that dust Or weep ye that I weep no more- Father-art thou a man of tears, From the earthly strifes and human fears, Nay, triumph that thou bad'st me love "My mother, weep not-tears will hide If thou hadst taught me guile, or pride, "Sister, sweet sister, leave my tomb, "Let faith's resplendent sun arise, "Tears for the dead who die in sin, Tears when the conscience wakes within Tears for the lost-but Heaven's own voice ANONYMOUS. ON THE LOSS OF A SISTER. MY DEAR FRIEND, Permit me to express the deep interest I take in your distress, from the loss of the best of friends, and the best of sisters. How many losses are united! She has left a husband to lament the most lovely of wives, you the most endeared of sisters, the church of Christ one of its brightest ornaments, and the world one of its fairest examples. Had I been permitted to draw aside the mysterious veil that hides futurity; could I have had any presentiment of what was about to occur, when I saw her the last time, how solemn would have been the moments, how awfully interesting my emotions! I know the heart, when recently wounded, must be indulged in the luxury of grief, and, if there ever was an occasion which could justify the most poignant regret, it is the present, in which we lament the loss of so much excellence. But I hope you will, by degrees, inure your imagination to dwell less on your loss, and more on her happiness. What a glorious display of the power of Christianity! What a triumphant departure! O that my last end may be like hers! Her life was an ornament to Christianity; a pattern to her sex. Immortality dawned on her enraptured mind, even before it quitted its earthly abode; and her pure and elevated spirit made an easy transit to the society of the blessed. Her career was short, but illustrious; and she crowded into her little sphere the virtues of a long life. Short as her continuance was upon earth, she was permitted to exemplify the duties of every character, and to imprint on the memories of all who were honoured with her acquaintance, the perfections of a friend, a sister, a mother, and a wife. It is true she has slept the sleep of death; but she sleeps in Jesus; she has gone before you into the holy of holies; she will meet you at the great rendezvous of being, the assembly of the just; and, in the mean time, instead of being an object of your pity, probably looks down upon you with ineffable tenderness and compassion. I must say, I never heard, on the whole, of so calm, so triumphant a death; it seemed as if she had been permitted to step into heaven before her final departure, that she might thence address herself to her friends with more serenity, dignity, and effect. What, my dear friend, besides Christianity, can thus scatter the horrors of the soul? What else could enable a young lady in the bloom of life, with a prosperous fortune, beloved by a husband, endeared to her friends, and esteemed by all, to triumph in the thoughts of dissolution? Divine Christianity! it is thine only to comfort and support the languishing and the dying. Her numerous acquaintance should ask themselves, whether the loose sceptical principles of the age are at all adapted to such a scene; whether they have any thing in them that will enable them to exert the calm heroism displayed in the most trying moment by this departed excellence. Let me hope, that some one, at least, will be impressed by this wonderful example of the power of religion. The consolations of your dear deceased sister did not result from a general belief of the doctrine of immortality; but in specific views of Christ as a Saviour, and the prospect of being for ever with him. My dear friend, let us hold fast this kind of Christianity, without wavering, as the antidote of death. R. HALL. THE SISTER'S GRAVE. I HAD a little sister once, And she was wondrous fair; Like twined links of the yellow gold Was the waving of her hair. Her face was like a day in June, When all is sweet and still, And the shadows of the summer clouds Creep softly o'er the hill. O, my sister's voice-I hear it yet, Like the singing of a joyous bird, Sometimes the notes would rise at eve, My mother thought a spirit sang, But then we heard the little feet And met the gaze of brighter eyes And she would enter full of glee, With a garland of the simple flowers By mountain streamlets found. She never bore the garden's pride, Our own sweet wild-flower ever loved Like them she seemed to cause no toil, To give no pain or care, But to bask and bloom on a lonely spot And oh! like them, as they come in Spring, She passed with the sun's last parting smile, From life's rough path away. And when she died-'neath an old oak tree My sister's grave was made; For, when on earth, she used to love Its dark and pensive shade. |