Beneath the spreading branches of a sycamore, which stands in one corner of the graveyard of Marietta, were placed the mortal remains of the emigrant youth. No funeral rites were said over the grave, and no stone or other memorial marks the spot. Yet to one sad and lonely heart it is endeared above every other in the whole wide world; and as the prayers of the childless widow ascended silently to heaven, who can doubt that he who ruleth all things for good, and cares for the humblest of his children, shed down, in answer, some ray of hope and comfort for that which was lost.

THE MISSIONARY'S BURIAL.

BY AMANDA WESTON.

SUNSET in the far East! The cooling breeze
Of eve swept through the branches of the palm,
And played with the tall cocoa's feathery crest,
And stole sweet perfume from the cinnamon
And nutmeg grove, and from the countless flowers
That, in their beauty, bowed their bright young heads
Beneath its passing wing. The gorgeous hues
Of parting day were on the floating clouds
That, in the clear blue vault, high overhead,
Spread their fantastic canopy, in forms

That might have mocked the painter's magic art
To copy, or the poet's imagery

To shadow forth in dim comparison.

Mountain, and vale, and cliff, and forest-tree,
And castle-turret high, and cottage roof,

And graceful wanderer o'er the wave, with wings
Spread wide to waft her on her ocean way,-
All these the eye of Fancy might have traced,
Moving or motionless, in the blue sky.

The brilliant hues of the calm sunset hour
Were yet in all their splendor, as along
The winding streets, through the dense multitude
That silently made way at its approach,
A funeral train moved on, with heavy hearts
Bearing the young, and gentle, and beloved,
Peacefully resting in death's dreamless slumber,
To her last couch of rest.

She had gone forth, In the glad morn of life, from home and friends, To seek, in a far land, a home with those Who knew not the Redeemer; at whose name Her heart would thrill with gratitude, to speak To them of him,- to tell them of his love, And the great sacrifice that love had offered For them as well as her,- to strive to win Their hearts for him who had so freely given His life to save them from eternal death. For this she left her native land; - for this, With a loved mother's kiss on her fair brow,— With a fond father's blessing,- with the clasp Of a kind brother's hand, and the warm tear Of a young, gentle sister on her cheek, She breathed her last farewell to home and friends, And, smiling through her tears, and blessing them In faltering accents, sought, in humble trust, A place of toil and watching, in the land

Of strangers. She had reached that land, and found
A welcome. She had labored faithfully,

And not in vain; for those for whom she toiled

Had learned to love her, and, far more, to love

The God of whom she told them. She had seen

An answer to her prayers, a recompense

For all her toils. And now, her work was done,

And they were bearing her away to rest.

They gathered round her grave, and strewed fresh flowers Upon her coffin; and the voice of prayer

Rose in its deep solemnity, more deep

In such a scene and hour; and, ere the sky
Had lost the last of the rich hues that gave
Such beauty to its graceful drapery,

Feeling that one of their small band had found
The home that all were seeking, from her grave
They turned away, to think of her in heaven.
Heaven, the Christian's home! We should not weep
When our beloved ones leave us, could we see
The welcome that awaits them there. And she,
Meek, patient laborer in the sacred fields

Of the great Master,- though her grave lies far
From her own home, severed by the wide sea

From the green churchyard where her friends will rest,
May meet them all, rejoicing, there, once more;
And with them meet those whom her faithful toil,
Crowned with a blessing from on high, first led
From the dark paths of error, to the light
That, shining from the lamp of Faith, points out
To the bewildered wanderer, faint and weary
With his long journeying, "a better way."

THE MINISTRATIONS OF SORROW.

BY L. M. CHILD.

THERE is a fine picture of Jean Paul Richter, surrounded by floating clouds, all of which are angel faces; but so soft and shadowy, that they must be sought for to be perceived.

It was a beautiful idea thus to environ Jean Paul; for whosoever reads him with an earnest thoughtfulness, will see heavenly features shining through the golden mists or rolling vapor.

But the picture interested me especially, because it embodied a great spiritual truth. In all clouds that surround the soul there are angel faces; and we should see them, if we were calm and holy. It is because we are impatient of our destiny, and do not understand its use in our eternal progression, that the clouds which envelop it seem like black masses of thunder, or cold and dismal obstructions of the sunshine. If man looked at his being as a whole; or had faith that all things were intended to bring him into harmony with the divine will, he would gratefully acknowledge, that spiritual dew and rain, wind and lightning, cloud and sunshine, all help his growth, as their natural forms bring to maturity the flowers and the grain. Whosoever quarrels with his fate does not understand it, says

Bettine; and among all her inspired sayings she spake none wiser.

Misfortune is never mournful to the soul that accepts it; for such do always see that every cloud is an angel's face. Every man deems that he has precisely the trials and temptations which are the hardest of all others for him to bear; but they are so, simply because they are the very ones he most needs.

I admit the truth of Bulwer's assertion, that long adversity usually leaves its prey somewhat chilled, and somewhat hardened to affection; passive and quiet of hope; resigned to the worst, as to the common order of events; and expecting little from the best, as an unlooked for incident in the regularity of human afflictions. But I apprehend this remark is mainly applicable to pecuniary difficulties; which, in all their wretched and entangling minutiae, like the diminutive cords by which Gulliver was bound, tame the strongest mind, and quell the most buoyant spirit.

These vexations are not man's natural destiny; and therefore are not healthy for his soul. They are produced by a false structure of society, which daily sends thousands of kind and generous hearts down to ruin and despair in its great whirl of falsity and wrong. These are victims of a stinging grief, which has in it nothing divine, and brings no healing on its wings.

But the sorrow which God appoints is purifying and ennobling, and contains within it a serious joy. Our Father saw that disappointment and separation were necessary, and he has made them holy and