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Poetry.

SHALL WE MOURN FOR THE DEAD?

Shall we mourn for the dead, shall we sorrow for

those Who are called from their mansions of clay, Who have done with the world, with its trials and

woes
And its joys blooming but to decay?

Yes, yes, we will mourn, if the hope be withheld,

That a fitness for death had been given ;
If their views were confined to the things they

beheld,
And rarely looked onward to heaven.

But if it were theirs on the hope to lay hold,

That in Jesus is offered to all, For ourselves we may weep as the day we behold ;

But for them not a tear-drop shall fall.-Anon.

THE MOTHER'S COMFORT.

I had a son, a little son, his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years or months where he

is gone to dwell: To us far less than four short years, his infant

smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to

live in Heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he

weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining

seraph brow: The thoughts which fill his sinless soul, the bliss

which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God

will not reveal; But I know, for God doth tell me this, that he is

now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, in their Saviour's

loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more, this weary load of

flesh,

But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy

for ever fresh; I know the angels fold him close beneath their

glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of

Heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, his father

dear, and I, Where God for aye, shall wipe away all tears from

every eye. Whate'er befals us here below, his life can never

cease, Our lot may here be grief and care,—but his is

certain peace. When we think of what our darling is, and what

we still may be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and

this world's misery; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel

this grief and pain, Oh! we'd rather give up every thing than have

him back again.—Moultrie.

A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.

Bring me flowers, all young and sweet, That I my strew the winding sheet, Where calm thou sleepest baby fair, With roseless cheeks, and auburn hair !

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath ;
The lilly of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not ;
That I may strew them o'er thy bier,
With long drawn sigh and gushing tear.

Oh, what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love !
Oh! what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace to a mother's grief !

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