"WE ALL DO FADE AS A LEAF."

BY E. B. PRIDEAUX.

SUMMER'S green leaves are withering;
From the blighted stalk they fall.
From the stately oak, and the graceful elm,
From the weed on the garden wall.
Softly upon the gentle breeze,

Rudely upon the blast,

And fast and thickly they strew the earth, As the storm-wind hurries past. Withered and sere,

With many a tear,

From the weeping clouds,

They fall on the lap of the dying year.

Ay, and like them we fade,

And fall to our kindred earth;

Grave-ward our feet are set,

From the very hour of birth;

The child on its mother's knee,

The bride in her youthful bloom,

With the manly form and the hoary head,

Are journeying to the tomb.

All, all must go,

Whether high or low;

Not the crowned king

Can say to the last pale messenger, No!

Slowly some fade and die,

And sink to their evening rest,

As the leaves on the gentle zephyr borne,
When the sun sets in the west.
Suddenly some are called away,
As the wailing blast goes by,

And the pestilence, like the fierce storm-wind,
Bids tens of thousands die.

Like the withered leaves

Which the earth receives,
We fade and fall,

While Love o'er its blighted treasures grieves.

GRATITUDE IN AFFLICTION.

I WOULD offer my tribute of gratitude to God for the blessedness and the power of the bright and cheering views of religion, which we are permitted to cherish in the period of deep and trying sorrow. The thought of God as the Father, the kind Father, the heavenly Father, has been unspeakably dear and sustaining. Not a doubt of his love has been permitted to darken my mind; not a harsh tone have I heard in his voice. His countenance has still seemed gracious and benign.

And then, these precious thoughts of immortality, how dear they are to the soul yearning for peace and support. Like God's own angels they come, shedding celestial fragrance from their wings. Like God's own angels they come, and raise for a mo

m

ment the evil which shuts the departed from our bodily sight, and permit us to have a glimpse of the brightness of the better world, and to catch, “in fragments wild, sweet echoes of unearthly melodies."

O, this faith in immortality! who shall estimate its value?"The gold and the crystal cannot equal it, and the exchange of it shall not be for jewels of fine gold." It is strength in weakness; it is peace in sadness; it is light in darkness; it is life in death. Thanks to Jesus for the bright revelation! Thanks to his Father, and our Father, for sustaining, undoubting faith in that revelation.

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A free paraphrase of the German.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet, in tenderest love, our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that angel's glance,-
There's rest in his still countenance:
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure,-

He kindly learns us to endure.

wwww

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brow with cooling palm,-
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will.
Oh, thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day!
He walks with thee,- that angel kind,―
And gently whispers, "Be resigned!
Bear up, bear on,- the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well."

*

CONSOLATION IN SORROW.

It is not to the tomb that God will carry those whom you love. The fleshly garments may be carried there, but the living soul God places not in the tomb. Think, then, that at any moment the objects of your fond love may be withdrawn to the spiritual world. Thus your affection will be spiritualized. You will regard those whom God kindly makes dear, not as beings of time, but as immortal beings. Your love will be love of the soul. You will become true friends to one another, as angels are friends to one another in heaven. You will find mutual delight in prayer, and in efforts to aid each other along life's pilgrimage. Every day you will gather a leaf from the tree of Life, and inweave it into the band which unites you to the

beloved one; and when at last the hour of separation comes, you will find that the band of union has become altogether amaranthine, and not a leaf shall wither before death's cold breath. Affections, thus spiritualized, thus rendered immortal, what beauty and happiness do they impart to life! what superiority do they give over death! And when the hour of reunion comes to those who have thus loved, O, its bliss, what tongue can tell? That bliss may the heavenly Father graciously grant unto us all!

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

THE trembling dew-drops fall
Upon the shutting flowers;-like souls at rest
The stars shine gloriously,- and all
Save me are blest.

Mother, I love thy grave!

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head,-when shall it wave
Above thy child?

'Tis a sweet flower; yet must

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow:
Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem,- dust
Is on thy brow.