THE WIDOW'S HUSBAND, AND THE ORPHAN'S FATHER.

THE strongest passion, and that which seems the most capable to detain a Christian soul, is the affection which fathers and mothers bear to their children, especially if they leave them in an age unable to help themselves. But lest this natural passion should transport you beyond the bounds of reason and piety, consider well the promise that God made to Abraham: I will be a God unto thee and unto thy seed after thee; and what St. Peter told the Jews: The promise is unto you, and to your children, and to all that are afar off; even as many as the Lord our God shall call. Above all, hear attentively, and engrave in the bottom of your hearts, that which God speaks to you from heaven by the prophet Jeremiah: Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive; and, let thy widows trust in me. God is the father of us all, but especially the father of the fatherless. He hath compassion on them, and provides for all their wants.

ON THE DEATH OF A SON.

W. B. O. PEABODY.

I NEVER trusted to have lived
To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,
It ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head shouldst lay,
And live beloved, when I was gone,
For many a happy day.

With trembling hand, I vainly tried
Thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,
With pain and grief oppressed,
And thou wast with the sainted,
Where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now,
But let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well,

Is earlier blessed than mine;
My faith may darken as it will,
I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life
Can never reach thee more.

THE DEPARTED WIFE.

NEWTON.

YES, she is absent! she who was to me the light and music of my happy home. It was her smile that made this house so gay, her voice that made it eloquent with joy. Her very tread had life and gladness in it. But 't is gone, and silence fills her place, and solitude spreads like a shadow over the very walls. Not a place, chair, or book, is what it was when she was here. Alas! how fondly do we concentrate our happiness in one beloved form a human form, so perishably frail! On that one form we staked our earthly joy. In that one life we lived. It was our world; that gone, our sun is darkened, and the scene, of late so full of beauty, is rife with desolation. From the dark ruins of our withered love, methinks there comes a voice in unison with thine, eternal Father! Set your affections upon things above, lay up your treasure there!' and not beneath; earth is too treacherous for so vast a trust!

MOURN NOT THE DEAD.

ELIZA COOK.

MOURN not the dead-shed not a tear
Above the moss-stained sculptured stone,
But weep for those whose living woes
Still yield the bitter, rending groan.

Grieve not to see the eyelids close
In rest that has no fevered start,
Wish not to break the deep repose
That curtains round the pulseless heart.

But keep thy pity for the eyes

That pray for night, yet fear to sleep,

Lest wilder, sadder visions rise

Than those o'er which they waking weep.

Mourn not the dead-'t is they alone

Who are the peaceful and the free;

The purest olive branch is known
To twine about the cypress tree.

Crime, pride, and passion hold no more
The willing or the struggling slave;
The throbbing pangs of love are o'er,

And hatred dwells not in the grave.

The world may pour its venomed blame,

And fiercely spurn the shroud-wrapped bier, Some few may call upon the name,

And sigh to meet a 'dull, cold ear.'

But vain the scorn that would offend,
In vain the lips that would beguile;
The coldest foe, the warmest friend,
Are mocked by Death's unchanging smile.

The only watchword that can tell
Of peace and freedom won by all,
Is echoed by the tolling bell,

And traced upon the sable pall.

VERILY, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and lament, but the world shall rejoice; and ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy.

JOHN.

YEA, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

PSALM XXIII.