DEATH AND SLEEP.

KRUMMACHER.

IN brotherly embrace walked the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death upon the earth. It was evening. They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the dwelling of men. A melancholy silence prevailed around, and the chimes of the evening bell, in the distant hamlet, ceased. Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these two beneficent genii of the human race, their arms entwined with cordial familiarity; and soon the shades of night gathered around them. Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his mossgrown couch, and strewed with a gentle hand the invisible grains of slumber. The evening breeze wafted them to the quiet dwelling of the tired husbandman, infolding in sweet sleep the inmates of the rural cottage, from the old man upon the staff down to the infant in the cradle. The sick forgot their pain; the mourners their grief; the poor their care. All eyes closed. His task accomplished, the benevolent Angel of Sleep laid himself again by the side of his grave brother. "When Aurora awakes," exclaimed he, with innocent joy, "men praise me as their friend and benefactor. O, what happiness, unseen and secretly, to confer such benefits! How blessed are we to be the invisible messengers of the Good Spirit! How beautiful is our silent calling!" So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber.

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HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.

The Angel of Death sat with still deeper melancholy on his brow, and a tear, such as mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes. "Alas!" said he, "I may not, like thee, rejoice in the cheerful thanks of mankind; they call me, upon the earth, their enemy and joy killer." "O my brother," replied the gentle Angel of Slumber, "and will not the good man, at his awakening, recognize in thee his friend and benefactor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy? Are we not brothers, and ministers of one Father?" As he spoke, the eyes

of the Death Angel beamed with pleasure, and again did the two friendly genii cordially embrace each other.

"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."

BISHOP SPENCER.

I TREAD the churchyard's path alone,
Unseen to shed the gushing tear ;
I read on many a mouldering stone
Fond records of the good and dear.
My soul is well nigh faint with fear,

Where doubting Mary went to weep.
And yet what sweet repose is here —
"He giveth his belovéd sleep."

The world is but a feverish rest,
To weary pilgrims sometimes given,
When pleasure's cup has lost its zest,

And glory's hard-earned crown is riven.

Here, softer than the dews of even
Fall peaceful on the slumbering deep,
Asleep to earth, awake to heaven —
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

Yes, on the grave's hard pillow rise
No cankering cares, no dreams of woe;
On earth we close our aching eyes,

And heavenward all our visions grow.
The airs of Eden round us flow,

And in their balm our slumbers steep. God calls his chosen home, and so "He giveth his belovéd sleep."

Ah! vainly would the human voice,
In this dull world of sin and folly,
Tell how the sainted dead rejoice

In those high realms where joy is holy —
Where no dim shade of melancholy
Beclouds the rest which angels keep;
Where, peace and bliss united wholly,
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

If on that brow, so fair and young,
Affliction trace an early furrow;

If Hope's too dear delusive tongue
Has broke its promise of to-morrow ;-
Seek not the world again, to borrow
The deathful print its votaries reap.

Man gives his loved ones pain and sorrow,
God "giveth his belovéd sleep."

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THE DEATH BED.

THE DEATH BED.

THOMAS HOOD.

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her being out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed; she had
Another morn than ours.

"We spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if, by reason of strength, they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow: for it is soon cut off, and we fly away."-PSALM XC.

MUSIC AT A DEATH BED.

MRS. HEMANS.

BRING music! stir the brooding air

With an ethereal breath;

Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas?

O, no! not such that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,

When my weaned heart hath said farewell,
And passed the gates of strife.

Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn breathing strain
Filled with the soul of prayer!
Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope, be there.