Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there.

I cannot make him dead.
When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up with joy

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there.

When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though he is not there.

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked: he is not there.

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SONGS IN THE NIGHT OF BEREAVEMENT.

He lives; in all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there."

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that- he is there.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT OF BEREAVEMENT.

OCTAVIUS WINSLOW.

Ан, heavy as that night is, there is a song even for it, smitten, weeping soul. Jesus was bereaved. Can you not sing of this? "Jesus wept." Is there no melody in these words? O, yes! As one who himself knew and felt the blank which death creates in human friendship, as one whose tears once fell upon the cold clay, while no hand was outstretched to wipe them, he sympathizes with your present sorrow, and is prepared to make it all his own.

Wide as is the chasm, deep as is the void, mournful as is the blank which death has

created, Christ can fill it; and filling it with his love, with his presence, with himself, how sweet will be your song in the night of your sorrow!" He hath done all things well." O, there is not a single hour of the long night of our woe, but if we turn and rest in Jesus, we shall find material for a hymn of praise such as seraphs cannot sing.

Nor must we pass by David's sweet song in the dark night of his domestic calamity and grief: "Although my house be not so with God, yet he hath made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure; for this is all my salvation, and all my desire, although he maketh it not to grow." (2 Sam. xxiii. 5.) The everlasting covenant which God has made with Jesus, and through Jesus with all his beloved people, individually, is a strong ground of consolation amidst the tremblings of human hope, the fluctuations of creature things, and the instability of all that earth calls good. What a friend, what a brother, what a helper is Jesus! Never, no, never does he leave his suffering one to travel the night of bereavement unvisited, unsoothed by his presence. He is with you now, and of his faithfulness that never falters, of his love that never changes, of his tenderness that never lessens, of his patience that never wearies, of his grace that never decays, of his watchfulness that never slumbers, you may sing in the storm night of your grief.

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THE DYING INFANT TO ITS MOTHER.

THE DYING INFANT TO ITS MOTHER.

REV. R. CECIL.

"Let me go, for the day breaketh."-GENESIS xxxii. 36.

CEASE here longer to detain me,
Kindest mother, drowned in woe;
Now thy kind caresses pain me;
Morn advances-let me go.

See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away!

Lately launched, a trembling stranger,
On this world's wide, boisterous flood,
Pierced with sorrows, tossed with danger,
Gladly I return to God.

Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee,
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillow than thy breast.

Weep not o'er these eyes that languish,
Upward turning towards their home;

Raptured they'll forget all anguish,
While they wait to see thee come.

There, my mother, pleasures centre;
Weeping, parting, care, or woe
Ne'er our Father's house shall enter:
Morn advances - let me go.

As through this calm and holy dawn
Silent glides my parting breath,
To an EVERLASTING MORNING,
Gently close my eyes in death.

Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart;
Though no language yet possessing
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing rends me:
Now again this voice I hear:
Rise!-may every grace attend thee,
Rise, and seek to meet me there!

"In afflictions, we experience not so much what our strength is, as what is the strength of God in us, and what the aid of divine grace is, which often bears us up under them to a surprising degree, and makes us joyful by a happy exit; so that we shall be able to say, My God, my Strength, and my Deliverer." - LEIGHTON.

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