"Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." The dreaded moment has come ;-there is no reprieve. Her child is laid upon the earth's cold bosom,-she takes one last, lingering look, --and turns away, leaving her darling sealed in the long sleep of death.

tion, sustain her now!

Thou God of consola

"Ay, pale and silent daughter,'
Cold as thou liest there,
Thine was the sunniest nature
That ever drew the air.

'The gayest and most gladsome,'
And yet so gently kind,
Thou seemedst but to body

A breath of summer-wind.

Into the eternal shadow

That girts our life around,

Into the infinite silence,

Wherewith Death's shore is bound,
Thou hast gone forth, my darling,'

6

And it were wrong' to weep

That thou hast left Life's shallows,

And dost possess the deep.

Thou liest low and silent,

Thy heart is cold and still,

Thine eyes are shut forever,

And Death has had his will. He loved, and would have taken,

I loved, and would have kept ;-
We strove, and he was stronger
And I 'in anguish' wept.

Let him possess thy body,-
Thy soul is still with me,

More sunny and more gladsome
Than it was wont to be.

Now I can see thee clearly ;-

The dusky cloud of day, That hid thy starry spirit,

Is rent and blown away.
To earth I give thy body,
Thy spirit to the sky,

I saw its bright wings growing,
And knew that it must fly.

Now I can love thee truly,-
For nothing comes between

The senses and the spirit,

The seen and the unseen; Lifts the eternal shadow,—

The silence bursts apart,― And the soul's boundless future

Is present in

my heart."-J. R. LOWELL.

Return from the Grave.

""Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us."

N. P. WILLIS.

"We meet around the hearth,—thou art not there, Over our household joys hath passed a gloom; Beside the fire we see thy empty chair,

And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room.
What hopeless longings after thee arise!
Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine,
And for the sound of thy dear little feet—
Alas! tears dim my eyes,

Meeting in every place some joy of thine,
Or when fair children pass me in the street.

*

*

*

*

*

Oh! what had Death to do with one like thee?

Thou young and loving one, whose soul did cling, Even as the ivy clings unto the tree,

To those who loved thee, thou whose tears would spring, Dreading a short day's absence, didst thou go

Alone into the future world unseen,

Solving each awful, untried mystery,
The unknown to know,

To be where mortal traveller hath not been-
Whence welcome tidings cannot come from thee:
MARY HOWITT.

OH! the returning from the grave of a buried child! How do the tenderest memories come thronging at the door of the soul! Grief's sable pall overshadows the broad earth, and clothes with its sombre drapery the canopy of blue. And if we try to look beyond, the eye, dim with weeping, can scarcely catch a glimpse of the sweet sunlight of heaven. The grave! the grave! the heart goes down into it, and lingers in its deep, dark shadow. But why are all our thoughts concentrated there? Why, with ceaseless yearnings does the heart still cleave to the perishable and the perishing?

"It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idolatry,—

What doth it in the shadow of the grave ?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,
So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish."

Yes, we have sinned, and our Father has stricken us. Our idol is torn from our heart, inflicting a wound, which the supporting grace of God, and the soothing hand of time may indeed bind up, but which can never be healed. For the moment, no considerations drawn from the present life avail to relieve our utter wretchedness. We readily acknowledge that our cup might have been mingled with still bitterer ingredients,that it might have been vet more filled up with anguish ;-still we feel that it is full to the brim, and as bitter as we can bear.

"Oh! but ill

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the 'mother's' heart
Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part
Which life will teach!-to suffer and be still,

And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared."

tion of our sorrow.

In the very attempt to direct our thoughts to the blessings that remain, we find an aggravaIf we turn to a sympathizing heart is bleeding with the same wound, we but weep afresh. If we look upon dear children still remaining to us, not only

companion whose