MAY YOU DIE AMONG YOUR KINDRED!

MRS ABDY.

"How much is expressed by the form of Oriental benediction- 'May you die among your kindred!'"

"MAY you die among your

kindred: "

may you rest your

parting gaze

On the loved familiar faces of your young and happy

days:

May the voices whose kind greeting to your infancy was

dear

Pour lovingly, while life declines, their music in your ear!

List to your fainting accents, and receive your last

request,

Read your unuttered wishes, on your changeful features

dwell,

And mingle sighs of sorrow with your faltering faint

farewell!

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May you die among your kindred:" may your peaceful grave be made

In the quiet cool recesses of the churchyard's hallowed

shade:

There may your loved ones wander at the silent close

of day,

Fair buds and fragrant blossoms on the verdant turf to lay!

'Tis a tender benediction; yet methinks it lacks the

power

To cast a true serenity o'er life's last solemn hour;

Ye, whom I love, I may not thus love's Christian part

fulfil;

List, while I ask for you a boon more dear, more precious still.

So may you

die that, though afar from all your cherished ties,

Though strangers hear your dying words, and close your

dying eyes,

Ye shall not know desertion, since your Saviour shall be

near,

To fill your fainting spirit with the "love that casts out fear."

So

may you die, so willingly submit your soul to God, That evermore your kindred, as they tread the path you

trod,

May picture your existence on a far-off heavenly shore, And speak of you as one not "lost," but only "gone

before."

So may you die, that when your death to pious friends is known,

Each shall devoutly, meekly, wish such lot may be their

own;

Not heeding if you died in want, in exile, or in pain, But feeling that you died in faith, and thus "to die is

gain!"

(Originat.)

THE ENTRANCE OF A CHRISTIAN INTO HEAVEN.

EMMELİNE DRUMMOND.

THE struggle was o'er, the valley past,
Which to him had nought of gloom,
For a ray from heaven's bright portals beamed,
To lighten his path to the tomb.

He heard the sound of the angels' harps,
As he passed up the Golden Street,

But his place was before the Saviour's throne,
For there his redeemed ones meet.

He needed not to be told the note

Which was sung by the shining throng, 'Twas the favourite theme of his praise on earth; It had been his dying song.

Louder and louder swelled the sound

Of the angels' glorious strain

"Worthy the Lamb who was slain for man,

O'er heaven and earth to reign!"

Sweet were those notes, but sweeter still
The song which was sung in heaven,
By the adoring thousands before the throne,
The ransomed, the forgiven!

Saviour! thy people are scattered here,
A weary pilgrim band—

Oh! gather them soon to their home above,
Oh! take them to that bright land!