Gently now, for ye are pressing
Close beside her cherished dead;
Soon their silent home possessing
She will share their peaceful bed.

Softly now, oh softly raise it,

Bear it o'er the lone grave's brink, On the earth's cold bosom place it, Slowly, slowly let it sink.

Rest thee, mother, worn and weary,
In thy silent chamber deep,
Though it seemeth lone and dreary,
It will give thee quiet sleep.

Long thy faltering steps have tended
To the noiseless, shadowy tomb;
Now thy pilgrimage is ended,
Spreadeth o'er us midnight gloom.

Yet oh! mother, sweetly slumber Deep within thy earth-made bed; Years may roll on without number, Still shall rest thy weary head.

Endeth now our mournful chanting, Though the bruiséd spirit weep, Beauteous flowers is memory planting Fresh within our hearts to keep.

Fast our bitter tears are streaming, As we breathe our last farewell. Yet there's light above us beaming, Farewell mother! fare thee well!

The Mother's First Vigils.

"To mark the sufferings of the babe
That cannot speak its woe,

To see the infant tears gush forth,
Yet know not why they flow,
To meet the meek, uplifted eye,
That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony-

This is a mother's grief."

T. DALE.

In returning from the tomb, what a quickened sense do we have of our common mortality! After looking down into the grave, with what an intensity of feeling will a mother clasp her children to her heart, as if she could thus shield them from the blight of death! But it may not be. The most clinging affection cannot purchase for her exemption from the liability of being called at any time, to bear them away to the tomb.

It was not many weeks after our return, that a change passed over our dear child, which made us feel for the moment, the insecurity of our

possession. In the midst of her plays, she was taken suddenly and dangerously ill. As she lay in our arms, she looked so sick-so deadly pale, that our hearts sank within us.

Sickness and suffering in any form, it is painful to behold. But there is something inexpressibly touching in the sufferings of a young child. And if that child be your own, who but a mother that has had like experience, can conceive of your emotions? Willingly, joyfully would you yourself bear every pain, nay you do bear it, and yet the child must bear it too. You can suffer with it, but not in its stead. How wistfully it looks around to see if any relief is nigh! What an appeal it makes to its mother's heart!

Thus imploringly did Carrie's eye fall upon us! It seemed to express wonder that we should let her suffer so. Dear child she was one of the fallen race, and shared in the common inheritance of suffering and sorrow.

From this sickness, God was pleased speedily to raise up our darling, so that in a few days she was again the light of our home.

Spring had once more come and gone, and the summer months were passing rapidly away.

And our graceful, bounding little one, her face all sunshine, her voice all music, and her soul all love, was every day stealing her way more and more into the very core of our hearts. If for a moment, a tear of sorrow dimmed her eye, before it could fall, it brightened into a tear of joy. A cloud on her sweet face, was the merest passing shadow, which only added radiance to the after sunshine.

"The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;

When the next summer breeze comes by,

And waves the bush, the flower is dry."