O death, what art thou? antitype of nature's marvels,

The seed and dormant chrysalis bursting into energy and glory,

Thou calm safe anchorage for the shattered hulls of

men,

Thou spot of gelid shade, after the hot breathed

desert,

Thou silent waiting hall, where Adam meeteth with his children.

How full of dread, how full of hope, loometh inevitable death?

Of dread, for all have sinned: of hope, for One hath saved!

The dread is drowned in joy,-the hope is filled with immortality.

Pass along, pilgrim of life, go to thy grave unfearing, The terrors are but shadows now, that haunt the Marten F. Tupper.

vale of death.

AN EARLY DEATH-BED AN EARLY CROWN.

Then weep not; but alike

Adore a taking and a giving God;

Deem not this blossom prematurely pluck'd,
Let those who make this fleeting world their all,
And its horizon bound their happiness,

Talk of untimely graves! no flower can drop
Too soon, if ripe for glory. Early pluck'd
Is early bliss

**

*

An early death-bed is an early crown.

Wells of Baca.

RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howso'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! these severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise;

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours; Amid these earthly damps;

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers,

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! what seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath,

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead,-the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing.
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her:

For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child.

But a fair maiden in her father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean That cannot be at rest,-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing

The grief that must have way.-Longfellow.

THE DYING CHILD.

"Oh, mother! what brings music here?

Now listen to the song,

So soft, so sweet, so beautiful,
The night winds bear along."

"My child, I only hear the wind,
As with a mournful sound

It wanders 'mid the old oak trees,
And strews their leaves around."

And dimmer grew his heavy eyes,
His face more deadly fair,

And down dropped from his infant hand
His book of Infant prayer.