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keep you from murmuring, and that you shall have to glory in your tribulation and infirmity, while the power of Christ is manifested thereby.

ERSKINE,

THE HAPPY SPIRIT.

"Weep not, my mother, weep not,-I am blest, But must leave heaven if I return to thee;

For I am where the weary are at rest,

The wicked cease from troubling.-Come to me!" Old Epitaph.

"WHY do ye weep?-to know that dust
No longer dims my soul?
To know that I am render'd just,
A victor at heaven's goal?

Or weep ye that I weep no more-
That sorrow's living reign is o'er ?

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Father-art thou a man of tears,
Because thy child is free

From the earthly strifes and human fears,
Oppressive even to thee?

Nay, triumph that thou bad'st me love
The rest, that I have found above.

"My mother, weep not-tears will hide
My glory from thy view;

If thou hadst taught me guile, or pride,
Then tears of blood were due;
But thy fond lips spoke truths divine:
Rejoice that now their meed is mine.

"Sister, sweet sister, leave my tomb,
Thy loved one is not there,
Nor will its planted flow'rets bloom
Whilst wept on by despair;
I dwell in blissful scenes of light:
Rejoice that thou didst aid my flight.

"Let faith's resplendent sun arise,
And scatter from each soul
The clouds that veil its native skies,
The mists that round it roll:
Rejoice, that I have found a home,
Whence never more my feet will roam.

"Tears for the dead who die in sin,
And tears for living crime:

Tears when the conscience wakes within
First in expiring time;

Tears for the lost-but Heaven's own voice
Says for the Christian dead-Rejoice."

ANONYMOUS.

ON THE LOSS OF A SISTER.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Permit me to express the deep interest I take in your distress, from the loss of the best of friends, and the best of sisters. How many losses are united! She has left a husband to lament the most lovely of wives, you the most endeared of sisters, the church of Christ one of its brightest ornaments, and the world one of its fairest examples. Had I been permitted to draw aside the mysterious veil that hides futurity; could I have had any presentiment of what was about to occur, when I saw

her the last time, how solemn would have been the moments, how awfully interesting my emotions! I know the heart, when recently wounded, must be indulged in the luxury of grief, and, if there ever was an occasion which could justify the most poignant regret, it is the present, in which we lament the loss of so much excellence. But I hope you will, by degrees, inure your imagination to dwell less on your loss, and more on her happiness. What a glorious display of the power of Christianity! What a triumphant departure! O that my last end may be like hers! Her life was an ornament to Christianity; a pattern to her sex. Immortality dawned on her enraptured mind, even before it quitted its earthly abode; and her pure and elevated spirit made an easy transit to the society of the blessed. Her career was short, but illustrious; and she crowded into her little sphere the virtues of a long life. Short as her continuance was upon earth, she was permitted to exemplify the duties of every character, and to imprint on the memories of all who were honoured with her acquaintance, the perfections of a friend, a sister, a mother, and a wife. It is true she has slept the sleep of death; but she sleeps in Jesus; she has gone before you into the holy of holies; she will meet you at the great rendezvous of being, the assembly of the just; and, in the mean time, instead of being an object of your pity, probably looks down upon you with ineffable tenderness and compassion.

I must say, I never heard, on the whole, of so calm, so triumphant a death; it seemed as if she had been permitted to step into heaven before her final departure, that she might thence address herself to her friends with more serenity, dignity, and effect.

What, my dear friend, besides Christianity, can thus scatter the horrors of the soul? What else could enable a young lady in the bloom of life, with a prosperous fortune, beloved by a husband, endeared to her friends, and esteemed by all, to triumph in the thoughts of dissolution? Divine Christianity! it is thine only to comfort and support the languishing and the dying.

Her numerous acquaintance should ask themselves, whether the loose sceptical principles of the age are at all adapted to such a scene; whether they have any thing in them that will enable them to exert the calm heroism displayed in the most trying moment by this departed excellence. Let me hope, that some one, at least, will be impressed by this wonderful example of the power of religion.

The consolations of your dear deceased sister did not result from a general belief of the doctrine of immortality; but in specific views of Christ as a Saviour, and the prospect of being for ever with him. My dear friend, let us hold fast this kind of Christianity, without wavering, as the antidote of death.

R. HALL.

THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

I HAD a little sister once,

And she was wondrous fair;

Like twined links of the yellow gold

Was the waving of her hair.

Her face was like a day in June,

When all is sweet and still,

And the shadows of the summer clouds

Creep softly o'er the hill.

O, my sister's voice-I hear it yet,
It comes upon mine ear,

Like the singing of a joyous bird,
When the summer months are near.

Sometimes the notes would rise at eve,
So fairy-like and wild,

My mother thought a spirit sang,
And not the gentle child.

But then we heard the little feet
Come dancing to the door,

And met the gaze of brighter eyes
Than ever spirit wore.

And she would enter full of glee,
Her long fair tresses bound

With a garland of the simple flowers

By mountain streamlets found.

She never bore the garden's pride,
The red rose, on her breast;

Our own sweet wild-flower ever loved
The other wild-flowers best.

Like them she seemed to cause no toil,

To give no pain or care,

But to bask and bloom on a lonely spot
In the warm and sunny air.

And oh! like them, as they come in Spring,
And with Summer's fate decay,

She passed with the sun's last parting smile, From life's rough path away.

And when she died-'neath an old oak tree

My sister's grave was made;

For, when on earth, she used to love

Its dark and pensive shade.

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