Puslapio vaizdai
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But wherefore should we weep ?
Why should our hearts repine?
Who would not wish to sleep
So sweet a sleep as thine?

Who would not yield his breath,
Thus changing toil for rest,
And gladly welcome death,
To lie on Jesu's breast?

Sleep then, my treasure, sleep,
Safe in thy narrow bed,
Till o'er the earth shall sweep,
That voice that wakes the dead.

The burden and the heat

Of life's fatiguing day,

Sweet one, thou didst not meet,
So early snatched away.

Yet in thy glorious rest,

Thy spirit thinks of those, Whom thy dear presence bless'd In all their joys and woes.

And could we hear thy voice,
Such would its accents be,-
"Dear sorrowing friends, rejoice,
No longer weep for me!

The Rev. W. S. FINCH.

THE HOLY GHOST, THE COMFORTER.

"WHO being dead yet speaketh." A heavy affliction like that which we have sustained, teaches us how little comfort, comparatively, can be derived from temporal sources in the hour of trial. Earthly friends endeavour to alleviate our distress, and they effect much for us, and we cannot be too grateful for their sympathies. And I hesitate not to say that the comfort derived from their kind and Christian attentions is far greater than they, who have not experienced it, could possibly suppose. And, therefore, in the calamities which befal our brethren, let us be forward to do whatever we can in any way to alleviate them. Let us bear each others' burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ. Let us weep with them that weep. Yea, it is good for ourselves to do so. It is "better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting." (Eccl. vii. 2.) But yet, at the same time, though earthly comforters may do much for us, it is not too strong

an observation to make, that, at the best, all they can do for us is but little compared with what GOD can do for us. Yea, they themselves often feel that this is the case. One kind correspondent thus expresses himself:-" Would that I could do anything to alleviate the very severe trial which you have just experienced, but how utterly feeble and helpless we show ourselves to be under such heavy blows, when we would fain do something to relieve the burden and anxiety of our friends. But the sympathy and help of the Saviour is a very different thing, as I trust you are experiencing. When He giveth quietness, who then can cause trouble? And what a very present help is He in every time of trouble! To Him, the fountain of consolation, we may every moment have access, and pour out our bearts before Him. And He is able, and willing too, to do for us exceeding abundantly, above all that we can ask or think. And how graciously He invites us to Himself. "Call upon Me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me." (Psalm i. 15) Well, therefore, might Mrs. Weitbrecht say, on the occasion of the death of her husband, who, on the Sunday evening, having preached the truth as it is in Jesus, returned home and was taken with cholera,

and was summoned away from this world, after an illness of only ten hours, "One drop from Jesus is able to make even this bitter cup sweet." "O, what a privilege it is to be acquainted with the sure refuge in such an hour of deep sorrow! and to be enabled, in some measure, to roll the heavy burden upon Him, and to look up to Him to bear us up under it, and to sanctify it abundantly to us!" Are there any persons now amongst us, who know not the Lord? Who are unacquainted with Him? who are living as without Him in the world? O what enemies to yourselves you are, you who neglect the Lord, and secure not Him for a friend! GOD Almighty grant that, of those whom I now address, there may not remain an individual in such a state of wretchedness and desolation and destitution, not one so unprovided for the time of trouble!

The Rev. J. D. JEFFERSON, M.A.

TO A DYING INFANT.

Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But quiet with the dead.

Yes! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be ;
Oh, many a weary wight,

Weary of life and light

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling,

Flee to thy place of rest,

There the first flower shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace, peace! the little bosom

Labors with shortening breathPeace, peace, that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh

These are the damps of death.

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