For it, with look that seemed to penetrate
The heavens-unutterable blessings - such
As God to dying parents only granted,

For infants left behind them in the world.

'God keep my child!' we heard her say, and heard No more; the Angel of the Covenant

Was come, and faithful to his promise, stood Prepared to walk with her thro' death's dark vale."

The lethargy which precedes dissolution again gathered over her faculties, and for some hours she continued insensible to all around. Her attention is once more aroused by repeated questions, and she utters her last sentence upon earth-"I AM QUITE WELL, ONLY WEAK." Again, a brief interval - a single exclamation of distress, uttered in the Burman language, and at 8 in the evening of the 24th of October, she falls asleep in Jesus. "And I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, write, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." "These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and Imade them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple- and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

ON READING THE MEMOIR OF ANN H. JUDSON.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

I saw her on the strand.—Beside her smil'd
Her native land, and her beloved home,

With all their pageantry of light and shade, Streamlet and vale. There stood her childhood's friends,

Sweet sisters, who had shar'd her inmost thoughts,
And saint-like parents, whose example rais'd
Those thoughts to Heaven. It was a strong array!
And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves.
But Christ had given it panoply, which earth
Might never overthrow.

And so she turn'd

To boisterous ocean, and forsook the clime
Whose halcyon bowers had nurs'd her joyous

youth.

Again I look'd.

It was a foreign shore. The tropic sun had laid his burning head On twilight's lap. A gorgeous palace caught His last red ray, while hoarse the idol song To Boodah, mingled with the breeze that curl'd Broad Irrawaddy's tide. Why do we point To yon lone prison? Who is he that gropes Amid its darkness with those fetter'd limbs ? Mad pagans! do ye thus requite the man Who toils for your salvation?

See that form

Bending in tenderest sympathy to soothe
The victim's sorrow. Tardy months pass by,
And find her still intrepid at the post

Of danger, and of disappointed hope.

Stern sickness smote her, but she felt it not,
Heeded it not, and still with tireless zeal
Carried the hoarded morsel to her love;
Dar'd the rude arrogance of savage power
To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow
With her fair brow, as erst the angel's smile
Arous'd imprison'd Peter, when his hands,
Loos'd from their chains, were lifted high in praise.
There was another scene, drawn by his hand
Whose pallid pencil blotteth all the grace
And loveliness of man. Keen anguish pours
Its fiercest darts into that martyr's soul,
Who is about to wash her garments white
In the Redeemer's blood, and glorious rise
From tribulation to a world of rest.

Dark Burman faces are around her bed,

And one pale babe, · to hush whose wailing cry

She checks the death-groan, and with fond embrace Still clasps it firmly to her icy breast,

E'en till the heart-strings break.

He comes! he comes!

The wearied man of God, from distant toil.

His home, while yet it seems a misty speck,
His glance descries, half-wondering that the step
Of his beloved glides not o'er the heath,
As wont, to meet him.

Ah! what heathen lip,

In its strange language, told him, that on earth
Nothing remain'd which to his throbbing heart
In that hour's desolation he might press,

Save that poor, famish'd infant. Days of care Were measur'd to him, and long nights of grief Weigh'd out, and then that little moaning one

Went to its mother's bosom, and slept sweet
'Neath the cool branches of the Hopia tree.
'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice
Must breathe no more. This is to be alone!

ALONE in this wide world. Yet not without
A Comforter. For the meek heart that trusts
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar,
Doth garner up its hopes more firmly there,
And toward that blessed hour look joyously,
Which binds its sever'd links, to break no more.

EARTH AND HEAVEN.

G. F. RICHARDSON.

Earth.

There is grief, there is grief-there is wringing of hands,

And weeping and calling for aid;

For sorrow hath summon'd her group, and it stands
Round the couch where the sufferer is laid.

And lips are all pallid, and cheeks are all cold,
And tears from the heart-springs are shed;
Yet who that looks on, the sweet saint to behold,
But would gladly lie down in her stead!

There is grief, there is grief- there is anguish and strife,

See, the sufferer is toiling for breath!

For the spirit will cling, Oh! how fondly to life,

And stern is the struggle with death! But the terrible conflict grows deadlier still,

Till the last fatal symptoms have birth;

And the eyeball is glazed, and the heart-blood is chill; And this is the portion of Earth!

Heaven.

There is bliss, there is bliss in the regions above

They have opened the gates of the sky;

A spirit hath soared to those mansions of love,
And seeks for admittance on high.

And friends long divided are hasting to greet
To a land, where no sorrow may come,
And the seraphs are eager a sister to meet,
And to welcome the child to its home!

There is bliss, there is bliss- at the foot of the throne,
See the spirit all purified bend;

And it beams with delight since it gazes alone,
On the face of a father, a friend!

Then it joins in the anthems for ever that rise,
And its frailty or folly forgiven;

It is dead to the earth; and new-born to the skies;
And this is the portion of Heaven!