GRIEF WAS SENT THEE FOR THY GOOD. T. H. BAYLEY. SOME there are who seem exempted Checks her infant's wayward mood, Grief was sent thee for thy good. In the scenes of former pleasure, Let no impious thought intrude- Grief was sent thee for thy good. GOD doth but cast us down, to raise us up; and empty us, that he may fill us; and melt us, that we may be vessels of glory: loving us as well in the furnace, as when we are out, and standing by us all the while. WE SHOULD NOT COMPLAIN OF GOD'S JUDGMENTS, FOR THEY ARE JUST. REV. HERMAN HOOKER. 'His path is in the great waters, and his footsteps are not known; his judgments are unsearchable, and his ways past finding out.' But it certainly befits erring and guilty creatures to be submissive when they cannot comprehend. We know not what is best for us: we know only that adversity may humble us, and that prosperity may elate and undo us. We know that when God wraps himself in the terrors of his darkness, the morning of joy may be rising, and that when the sky is filled with the stars of hope, the abyss of destruction may open under our feet. But whether we know or know not, it is most unreasonable to complain of that unequal distribution of suffering, the end of which we cannot comprehend, while it is Icertain that the measure which ourselves endure, be it small or great, is a just infliction. THE SLUMBER OF DEATH. ELIZA COOK. PEACEFUL and fair is the smiling repose Sweet is the sleep on the eyelids of youth When they dream of the world as all pleasure and truth; Yet child, pilgrim, and youth shall awaken again To the journeys of toil and the trials of pain. But O! there's a fast and a visionless sleep, The calm and the stirless, the long and the deep; 'Tis the sleep that is soundest and sweetest of all, When our couch is the bier and our night-robe the pall. No voice of the foe or the friend shall impart the heart, The lips of the dearest may seek for the breath, But their kiss cannot rouse the cold stillness of death. 'Tis a long, 't is a last, 't is a beautiful rest, When all sorrow has passed from the brow and the breast, And the lone spirit truly and wisely may crave The sleep that is dreamless-the sleep of the grave! WOULD YOU CALL THEM BACK TO THIS UNHAPPY WORLD? REV. G. WHYTE. COULD you be so selfish, and so cruel? Could you wish them back-back from the presence of the Lamb,-back from the sweets of glory to the bitterness of time, back from those rivers of pure pleasure which flow full and large at God's right hand, to the streams of mingled enjoyment in this vale of sorrow? After they have reached the haven of rest, would you recall them to struggle again with the storm? Is there any thing in the state or employments of those who surround the throne which you are called upon to contemplate with sadness, or to deplore in the language of despair? Is it any subject of regret to them that their sun went down while it was yet day? THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE! THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has passed through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom! Thou art gone to the grave!- - we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the sinless have died! Thou art gone to the grave!- and its mansion forsaking, Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long; But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking, And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song! |