And every spring in that old tree And wild-flowers blow on the soft green turf And the children of our village say That on my sister's tomb The wild-flowers are the last that fade, And the first that ever bloom. There is no stone raised there to tell My sister's name and age, For that dear name in every heart We miss her in the hour of joy, We miss her in the hour of woe, And the soothing words of the pious child Even when she erred, we could not chide, For though the fault was small, She always mourned so much—and sued She was too pure for earthly love- And we yielded her in her childhood's light, To a brighter home in Heaven. ANONYMOUS, WEEP NOT FOR HER! WEEP not for her! her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die, Like long-link'd shadeless months of polar light Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While echo answers from the flowery brake, Weep not for her! Weep not for her! she died in early youth, Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze, Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay She pass'd, as 't were on smiles, from earth to heaven; Weep not for her! Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel Weep not for her! She is an angel now, Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe, And from earth's low defilements keep thee back. So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her! D. M. MOIR. ON THE LOSS OF A CHILD. I SINCERELY Sympathize with you in the loss of your child; but, my dear friend, do not suffer your spirits to sink. Remember the tenure on which all human enjoyments are held, the wisdom and sovereignty of their great Author, and the gracious promise afforded to true Christians, that "all things shall work together for good, to them that love him." Remember, also, the many blessings with which a kind Providence still indulges you. Ought you not to rejoice, that your affectionate companion in life is spared; and that, though your child is snatched from your embraces, he has escaped from a world of sin and sorrow? The stamp of immortality is placed on his happiness, and he is encircled by the arms of a compassionate Redeemer. Had he been permitted to live, and you had witnessed the loss of his virtue, you might have been reserved to suffer still severer pangs. A most excellent family, in our congregation, are now melancholy spectators of a son dying, at nineteen years of age, by inches, a victim to his vices. They have frequently regretted he did not die several years since, when his life was nearly despaired of in a severe fever. "Who knoweth what is good for a man all the days of this his vain life, which he spends as a shadow ?" R. HALL. TO A DYING INFANT. SLEEP, little baby! sleep! Yes! with the quiet dead, Would fain lie down with thee. Flee, little tender nursling; Peace! peace! the little bosom I've seen thee in thy beauty, Baby! thou seem'st to me. Mount up, immortal essence! How beautiful thou art! Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over, By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open, Thy soul were fluttering. |