been for many years separated from me, by seas that I shall never repass. They are the same to me as if buried. My own dear family I have actually buried: one in Rangoon, and two in Amherst. What remains for me, but to hold myself in readiness to follow the dear departed to that blessed world,

'Where my best friends, my kindred dwell,
Where God, my Saviour, reigns?" "

WIDOWED AND CHILDLESS! O, the sadness that is embodied in this expressive phrase! To return from the grave of the last of all the family, to the deserted dwelling, and stand upon its threshold, and feel " as if he could not enter."-O, how utterly powerless is language to portray the agony of a moment like that! Yet, even there, Religion can sustain the sinking spirit of the solitary mourner, as she lifts up her radiant hand, and points to a world where "there shall be no more death," and where "the days of our mourning shall be ended."

There Faith lifts up the tearful eye,

The heart with anguish riven;

It views the tempest passing by,
Sees evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in Heaven.

TO THE DYING LITTLE MARIA.

MRS. SARAH H. BOARDMAN.

Ah! this is death, my innocent; 'tis he, Whose chilling hand has touch'd thy tender frame. With placid feeling, we behold thee still,

For thou art lovely in his cold embrace

Serene thy whitened brow, and thy mild eye Tinged with a deeper blue than when in health. Thy trembling lips are pale thy bosom throbs ; Yet still we weep not for full well we know, This agitation is thy soul's release

From its low tenement to mount above.

Thou heed'st us not; not e'en the bursting sigh Of thy dear father, now can pierce thine ear. And yet that look, that supplicating glance,

What would it crave? what would'st thou ask, my love?

Has e'er thy father told thee of a spot,

A dwelling-place from human ken concealed?
A mansion where the weary, and the sad,
And broken-hearted, find a sweet repose?
And has he told thee, in that resting-place
There calmly slumbers one, whose gentle hand,
From earliest infancy, supplied thy wants?
Whose bosom was thy pillow; and whose eye
For ever beamed on thee, with fondest love?

And would'st thou seek thy mother in the grave? (For 'tis the grave I speak of) — there is rest— And thou art weary, love, and need'st repose.

Though short thy life, full many a day of pain,
And night of restlessness, has been thy lot.
Born in a heathen land, far, far removed

From all thy parents loved, in former years
When thou first saw'st the light, these were not there,
To kneel beside thy mother, and implore
Blessings upon thy little head, and sing

The song of gratitude, and joy, and praise.
Strangers were there; strangers to truth and peace;
Strangers to feeling; strangers to her God.

Thy father came not then to kiss his babe,
And glad the heart of her who gave thee birth.
Alas! a loathsome, dark, and dreary cell
Was his abode,-anxiety his guest.

Thy mother's tale, replete with varied scenes, Exceeds my powers to tell; but other harps, And other voices, sweeter far than mine,

Shall sing her matchless worth, her deeds of love, Her zeal, her toils, her sufferings, and her death.

But all is over now. She sweetly sleeps, In yonder new-made grave; and thou, sweet babe, Shalt soon be softly pillowed on her breast. Yes, ere to-morrow's sun shall gild the west, Thy father shall have said a long adieu To the last ling'ring hope of earthly joy :

Thy throbbings will have ceased; thine eye be closed;
And thou, Maria, wilt have found thy rest.

Thy flesh shall rest in hope, till that great day,
When He who once endured far greater woes

Than mortal man can know; who when on earth Received the little children to his arms,

Graciously blessing them, shall come again :

Shall come

not in the garb of sinful man

But clothed in majesty, arrayed in power.

Then shall thy dust arise nor thine alone;

But all who sleep shall wake and rise with thee.
Then, like the glorious body of thy Lord,

Who wakes thy dust, this fragile frame shall be.
Then shalt thou mount with him on angel's wings;
Be freed from sorrow, sickness, sin, and death,
And in his presence find eternal bliss.

GOD A REFUGE IN TRIALS.

BEDDOME.

My times of sorrow and of joy,
Great God, are in thy hand;

My choicest comforts come from Thee,
And go at Thy command.

If Thou should'st take them all away,

Yet would I not repine

Before they were possessed by me,
They were entirely Thine.

Nor would I drop a murmuring word,
Though all the world were gone,
But seek enduring happiness

In Thee, and Thee alone.

8KETCHES OF MISSIONARY LIFE.

No. XIV.-DEATH IN THE JUNGLE.

EDITOR.

"Let me but know

There is an arm unseen that holds me up,
An eye that kindly watches all my path,
Till I my weary pilgrimage have done -
Let me but know I have a friend that waits

To welcome me to glory, and I joy

To tread the dark and death-fraught wilderness,
And when I come to stretch me for the last,

That I have toiled for other worlds than this:
I know I shall feel happier than to die
On softer bed."

Brown.

Just one week previous to the death of "little Maria," the Rev. George D. Boardman and his wife, Sarah B., arrived at Amherst. Mr. Boardman paid a visit to Maulmain a few days after his arrival, and returned an hour or two after the little sufferer had breathed her last, "just in season to construct the coffin, and make other preparations for the funeral. At nine o'clock the next day, they took a last look at little Maria, and placed her by the side of her mother's newmade grave."