And I could love to die,

To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams,

By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,
And share thy dreams.

And must I linger here,

To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear,
With bitter tears?

Ay; I must linger here,

A lonely branch upon a blasted tree;

Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee.

Oft, from life's withered bower,

In still communion with the past, I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In memory's urn.

And when the Evening pale

Bows like a mourner on the dim, blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail
Around thy grave.

Where is thy spirit flown?

gaze above, thy look is imaged there, I listen, and thy gentle tone

Is on the air.

Oh, come, whilst here I press
My brow upon thy grave,- and, in those mild
And thrilling tones of tenderness,
Bless, bless thy child!

Yes, bless thy weeping child,

And o'er thine urn,- religion's holiest shrine,

Oh, give his spirit undefiled

To blend with thine.

~

AFFLICTIONS BENEFIT THE CHRISTIAN.

BY ALBERT BARNES.

THEY produce peace, calmness, submission in the soul. They make the heart more tranquil in its confidence in God. There is no Christian who is not ultimately benefited by trials, and who is not able at some period subsequently to say, "It was good for me that I was afflicted. Before I was afflicted I went astray; but now have I kept thy word." When a Christian comes to die, he does not feel that he has had one trial too many, or one which he did not deserve. He can then look back and see the effect of some early trial so severe that he once thought he could hardly endure it, spreading a hallowed influence over his future years, and scattering its golden fruit all along the pathway of life. I have never known a Christian who was not benefited by afflictions; I have seen none who was not able to say that his trials produced some happy effect on his religious character and on his real happiness in life. If this be so, then no matter how severe our trials, we should submit to them without a murmur. The more severe they are, the more we shall yet be blessed, on earth or in heaven.

"JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY."

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

WATCHER!-who wakest by the bed of pain,
While the stars sweep on in their midnight train,
Stifling the tear for thy loved one's sake,
Holding thy breath lest his sleep should break!
In thy loneliest hour there's a helper nigh,—
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

Stranger!-afar from thy native land,
Whom no one takes with a brother's hand,
Table and hearth-stone are glowing free,
Casements are sparkling, but not for thee;
There is one who can tell of a home on high,—
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

Sad one, in secret bending low,

A dart in thy breast that the world may not know, Wrestling the favor of God to win,

His seal of pardon for days of sin;

Press on, press on, with thy prayerful cry,— "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

Mourner!- who sittest in the churchyard lone,

Scanning the lines on that marble stone,

Plucking the weeds from thy children's bed,
Planting the myrtle and rose instead;

Look up from the tomb with thy tearful eye,-
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

Fading one, with the hectic streak

In thy vein of fire and thy wasted cheek,
Fear'st thou the shade of the darkened vale?
Seek, too, the Guide who can never fail;
He hath trod it himself, he will hear thy sigh,—
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

жи

"MY LITTLE BOY."

BY B. P. SHILLABER.

READER, please bear with us if we do not seem as happy as usual, for a dreadful woe has fallen upon us, and it is with a saddened heart that we attempt to write. This woe fills our mind with its shadow, and we cannot feign a joy we do not feel. But why should we make a parade of grief, and blazon it as it were upon the housetops? It does one good to speak of his sorrows, for he borrows comfort from answering sympathies.

That "Little Boy," of whom it was our delight and pride to speak, is no more. His sweet spirit has fled from the earth, and left an aching void in our heart, and an anguish which will be hard to remedy. The music of his voice is stilled; the mild beaming of his eyes is quenched in the darkness of death; his arms are no more outstretched upon loving impulses, nor his step speedy in affection's errands; the happiness of his smile will no more impart its blessed contagion to our own spirit, nor

C

the home places be made again pleasant by his bright presence.

We were loth that he should depart. There were a thousand ties that bound him to us. We could not conceive that a flower so fair and full of promise should wither and die while within our grasp. We fancied that we could hedge him round with our love, and that the grim archer could not find access to our fold through the diligence of our watchfulness. We had forgotten that the brightest and fairest are oftenest the victims of inexorable Death, and that the roseate robes of to-day's joy may be usurped to-morrow by the sable drapery of affliction.

There was much to endear him to us. Perhaps no more, however, than every child possesses to a parent. He was precocious to an extraordinary degree, and his little life was full of childish manliness that made everybody love him who looked upon him. His kiss is still warm upon our cheek, and his smile still bright in our memory, replete with love and trust. We were sanguine of a fruitful future for him, and we had associated him with many schemes of happy usefulness in coming life, and with foolish pride boasted of indications that promised all we hoped. Alas! how dark it seems now, as we recall the dear little fellow below stairs in his shroud, awaiting the last sad offices affection can bestow. He is smiling still, as he reposes beneath the coffin-lid, as if the spirit in parting had stamped its triumph, on the cold lips, over the dominion of Death.

That "Little Boy" was our idol, and there were