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found it while in health.

Her illness now assumed the

form of typhus fever, and she was seldom conscious many minutes together. Still at times she would attempt to sing

or

"My God, the spring of all my joys,
The life of my delights;

The glory of my brightest days,
And comfort of my nights."

"Oh for a heart to praise my God;

A heart from sin set free."

and when strength permitted she would lift up her voice in prayer. The last time she was permitted to do this, her petitions were very touching for her parents, brothers and sisters, her school fellows, her teachers, her beloved pastor, and not forgetting the poor heathen. For several days before her death she was quite unconscious, not even knowing her parents. On the evening before she died several friends paid her a farewell visit. She was sunk too low to speak to them, but after praying for her she gave us a beautiful smile. She once asked for her superintendent, and then spoke no more. At length the scene of conflict ended, and she sweetly fell asleep in Jesus on the 20th of April, 1853, aged fourteen years and six months. As a last mark of esteem to this young disciple, she was followed to the grave by the teachers and scholars of the school. Young reader! seek the Saviour now; and be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of man cometh.

Prospect Place.

W. R., the Superintendent.

THE CHURCH-MEETING DESCRIBED.

THE following poetical epistle was written by Mr. John Ryland, senr., baptist minister, Northampton, to Mr. Christian, of Sheepshead, Leicestershire, a few days after the return of Mr. Ryland from the Baptist Association of ministers and churches, held at Sheepshead, in 1764.

My dear brother Christian, whom much I esteem,
As one whom the Lord by his blood did redeem.
As you, when we parted, desired that I
Would write very soon, so now I comply;
And for once I have taken a fancy to send,
A few rambling lines to you, my dear friend:

If my verse be but awkward, my friendship is true;
Nor need I make any excuses to you.

To my friend Mr. Guy, I have briefly sent word
That I got safely home, through the care of the Lord.
To his name be all honour, and glory, and praise,
Whose providence graciously prospers our ways.
My friends at Northampton, in health all I found,
With manifold blessings encompassed around.
I was glad of a pleasant church-meeting to hear,
Although I regretted that I was not there.

By the power of God's Spirit, five persons revealed,
And told how He wounded, and then how He heal'd;
One woman especial, brother Chorus's sister,
Spoke choicely indeed, for the Lord did assist ber.
But poor Thomas Tilly could hardly go on;
Satan told him he'd die as soon as he'd done:

He trembled and quak'd every word that he said,
And in earnest expected to tumble down dead.

Charles Tilworth, poor lad, though proposed, was not there,
I hear he was kidnapp'd by Giant Despair;

But we hope that his heart will be better in tune,
To speak, with five more, the beginning of June:
May their tongues be untied, that they boldly may tell,
How the arm of Jehovah redeem'd them from hell;
How he sought them and found them far going astray,
And taught them to travel in Zion's right way.
O what a bless'd day is approaching, dear brother,
When I trust we in glory shall meet one another;
What singing, what shouting, what heavenly greeting,
Will be at that general triumphant church-meeting;
Where all the Lord's chosen together shall join,
To tell of the wonders of mercy divine:
Not idleness, business, or length of the way,
Shall keep from that meeting one member away.
Temptations and trials no more shall be known,
Nor satan nor sin then make us to groan :

Doubt, fear, nor distress, shall our souls then invade;
Nor scoffs of the world longer make us afraid :
No parties, no quarrels, the saints then divide,

They'll be free from all shyness, and free from all pride;
Well-met shall be all, both the great and the small,
Poor I may shake hands with the blessed Saint Paul.
Each strange dispensation now ill understood,
We then shall see clearly all work'd for our good;
What merciful dealings we then shall be told;
What wisdom, what goodness, we then shall behold:
When each tale is ended how shall we all sing,
And the loud sounding chorus will make heaven ring.
But oh, it seems long to that blessed day,
And I'm often discouraged because of the way:
We must travel, you know, as we go to Mount Zion,
O'er mountains of leopards, by the den of the lion;
And though they're all chain'd, and Christ over them rules,
Yet their horrible roaring frights children and fools.
Such short-sighted creatures as you and I be,
Can often the lions but not the chains see;

And to see but their shadow, if Christ be not there,
Is enough to make anyone tremble for fear.

However our Saviour has broken their head,
And promised that I on the dragon shall tread.
O that he would give me more courage and faith
To believe and rely on whatever he saith;

In his strength to resist all the armies of hell,
With the sword of the Spirit their might to repel;
Like the brave sons of God at my Saviour's command,
To fight till my sword shall cleave fast to my hand.
But the worst of all is, that from want of faith, I
Am apt to take fright like a coward and fly;

And none but my Captain, with shame I may say,

But would long since have hang'd me or turn'd me away:
But his patience is boundless, and boundless his grace,
And still doth he bear with a rebel so base.

God grant that his goodness my soul may excite
With firmness and courage in order to fight!
May the foresight of glory constrain you and me,
To consider what persons we now ought to be.

Sons of God!-heirs of heaven!-the purchase of blood!
Forbid it, dear Lord, we should wallow in mud.

Leave the earth to the moles, we are bound to the skies,
There's nothing deserves our affection besides.

Still to pray hard for me, my dear brother cease not;
Alas! you cant think what a heart I have got―
So stubborn, so stupid, so carnal, so cold,
The half of its wickedness cannot be told;
Above all things deceitful, and desperately bad,-
Good Lord! 'tis enough to make John Ryland mad.
Thou only can'st know it, Thou only can'st mend it;
O search it, and wash it, and break it, and cleanse it.
But I shall rhyme on 'til you'll surely be tired;
My paper is fill'd, and my time is expired.

May God bless you all, and may you increase
In love and in holiness, knowledge and peace.

To your aunt Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Mills, Mrs. Pratt,
The lady whose house we all breakfasted at.

The good man whose namesake, without food or lights,

In the sea-monster's belly liv'd three days and three nights:

To every one else, to Christ Jesus a friend,
My christian respects I most cordially send.
And pray God to prosper his gospel and bring
All his people to own the Lord Jesus as King.
FAREWELL! and believe me, there's none in this island,
That wishes you better than I do,-JOHN RYLAND.

These lines, which the postman to you will convey,
Were wrote at Northampton, the seventh of May,
In one thousand seven hundred sixty and four,

Since I left you at Sheepshead six days and no more.

It is worthy of particular remark, that, although the above epistle was in point of fact as stated, a letter from Mr. Ryland, senr., to Mr. William Christian, yet it was his son, young Ryland, afterwards Dr. Ryland of Bristol, who was then quite a lad, scarcely eleven and a half years old, that put the letter into poetry, and whose native ingenuity no doubt much embellished it.

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