O

broken, even by the wailing voice of her first-born, for it was the repose of death.

"They laid her beside the very spot where she had passed so many hours; and then I knew it was the grave of her parents which she had so loved to visit.

"The son lived, and the father's grief abated when he saw the boy growing into the image of his mother; and when the child, with uncertain footsteps, had dared to tread upon the velvet grass, the father brought him to the churchyard, and clasping his little hands as he knelt beside him, taught the babe that he had also a Father in heaven.

"I have lain since that time almost by her side, for my pride was humbled when they removed me from the station I had so long occupied. My voice has been hushed from that sorrowful night even until now; but I am compelled to speak to thee.

"Boy! boy! it is thy mother of whom I have told thee! Two lives were given for thine! - thy mother, who brought thee into the world, thy Savior, through whom is thy second birth. They have died that thou mightst live; and for so great a sacrifice, how much will be required of thee! See that thou art not found wanting when a reckoning is required of thee."

Suddenly as it had been borne to his ears, the voice became silent. The boy started as from a deep sleep, and put his hand to his brow. The dew lay damp upon it. The shades of evening had

crept over the churchyard, and he could scarce discern the white slab that marked the resting-place of his mother. It may have been a dream ; but when he searched about him for the old bell, it was lying with its lip very near to the fragment pillow upon which he had reposed.

Thoughtfully and slowly the boy went towards his home; but though he told no one, not even his father, what had befallen him, the story of the old bell was never forgotten, and his future life was influenced by its remembrance.

A WORD TO THE SORROWING.

Look forward!

Though dark clouds of grief hang o'er thee, Brighter scenes are yet before thee,

Which will peace and joy restore thee,

Pure and sweet;

Scenes of happiness disclosing,

In the future now reposing,

Bliss complete

Look upward!

Each bright orb above thee gleaming,
Like pure light from glory streaming,
Ever o'er thee fondly beaming,

Speaks a rest,

Where no care will e'er oppress thee,
Where no pain will e'er distress thee,

With the blest.

Press onward!

Upward, onward, still be pressing,
Wait not till the promised blessing,
Endless life, thou art possessing,

That blest prize!

Upward! onward! do not linger,

Hope still points, with radiant finger,

To the skies.

HEAVEN OVER ALL!

WE linger o'er the phantom past,
With back-turned heart and eye.
And shudder at the shadows cast
By all that has gone by.

And tracing memories, sad and grave,
That first were writ in pain,
We say, "We will not be the slaves

Of aught so false again."

So year by year glides swift away,
That we may not recall;

O, let the past but rule to-day,
And Heaven be over all!

Faintly the wearied spirit turns,
To seek for earthly rest,
And when the fever fiercest burns,
Leans on some loving breast.
Affection's hand is soft and warm,

Affection's voice is kind;

But can they give, in life's drear storm, Peace to the restless mind?

Ah! straining arms may clasp the breast, And words of love may fall;

That soul alone is truly blest

Where Heaven is over all.

Hearts that have loved us well and long,
We know your priceless worth;
But be ye not as fetters strong,

To bind us down to earth.

Lips that have warned us, gentle eyes
That smiled upon our youth,

Be more than all beneath the skies,
But less than God and Truth.
Then brightest joys shall dazzle not,
Nor pain nor care appal,

But earth shall prove a blessed spot,
When Heaven is over all.

"WHAT a poor value do men set of heaven!
Heaven! the perfection of all that can
Be said or thought, riches, delight, or harmony,
Health, beauty; and all these not subject to
The waste of time; but in their height eternal;
Lost for a pension, or poor spot of earth,

Favor of greatness, or an hour's faint pleasure!
As men, in scorn of a true flame that's near,
Should run to light their taper at a glow-worm."