Thou didst it-Thou whose heart of love Was wounded first for me:

Who passed through mortal life, and bore Death's deepest Agony.

How can I murmur or complain,

When Jesus suffered grief and pain?

Thou didst it, who art watching now,
Each pang and heavy sigh:
Yes, I submit,-if only Thou
Wilt hold me, and stand nigh:
I will not struggle with the knife
That wounds me, but to save my life.

Thou didst it, who art gone on high,
Where many mansions be:
There to prepare a glorious home,
And deathless friends for me.

Shall I rebel against the love,

That fits me for my home above?

Ah, no! e'en through this load of fears,
My heart is springing up,

To thank Thee for the boundless grace,
That overflows my cup.

But I am weak, and cannot always say

66

Thy will be done : " remember, I am clay.

Put a new song within my lips,
And let my spirit sing;

I give Thee up my inmost heart,

Saviour, and Priest, and King:

Take to Thee there, at least, Thy power and reign, Henceforth, "To live is Christ, to die is gain."

C.

AMY.

In the darkness of the night-time
When awake I silent lie,

Oft I think of thee, sweet Amy,
Till I almost feel thee nigh.

T'was a face like summer twilight,
With a broad and peaceful brow;
And an eye-how soft and earnest !
I can see its lustre now.

I can hear thy springing footstep
In the morning on the stair,
And thy low, sweet words of greeting,
They are with me everywhere.

When, with shy, yet fond caressing,

Thou thy face towards mine didst bring;

Well, and truly said they, Amy,

""Twas like touch of angel's wing."

There was sadness in thy gesture,
There was sorrow in thine eye,
When we spoke to thee of Jesus,
In His shame and agony.

Thou didst love Him,-little Amy,
And thou now art gone to be
Where they ever, ever serve Him,
Singing praise eternally.

We, the desert lone are treading,
Sad, and weary-footed still;
Thou art resting-blessed Amy,
Thou art safe on Zion's hill.

We are longing for the season,

When we shall our wanderings o'er,

Meet thee in our Father's mansions,

To be parted, never more!

L., January, 1854.

ROSALIE.

I must not wish you back again, my little Rosalie ; And yet I love to think, dear child, of what you used to be;

And should the thought of what you were, bring

tears into my eyes,

I must remember, that you now, are safe beyond the skies.

How simple was your little heart! how

heavenly thought!

pure

each

You had but one heart-felt desire, to love what Jesu

taught.

But you are gone! for Death's cold wind across

your path has sped,

And snapping off the fragile stem, has left the rosebud dead.

Perchance some storm would soon have spread across the cloudless sky,

And He who loves His little lambs, and listens to their cry,

Has safely to His Home of Rest, our little loved one

borne ;

Then why should not such peaceful thoughts bring peace to those who mourn?

For, borne aloft on angels' wings, her soul has sped

its way,

With songs of praise, as mounts the lark at break of summer's day.

Oh, may we all, sweet Rosalie, when called upon to die,

Join in the sweetest songs of praise, with thee beyond the sky!

And while we travel in our course of toil and sorrow

here,

May spirits such as thine, sweet child, be always hovering near!

To teach us that the cross we bear, the trials we

endure,

Are sent to seal our love for Christ and make our J. W. W., May, 1853.

rest secure.

Out in the moonlight, Emmie,
By the wild, old sea,
Water and wind, are keeping
Their ancient revelry.

'Tis the same old sea-shore, Emmie, Where our childish footsteps stray'd;

The same tall cliffs hang over,

'Neath which we often play'd.

When we gaze on all around us,
We can small change descry ;
But we ourselves, how altered,
We are changed, love, you and I.

Look at the moonlight gleaming
Over the restless waves ;

The same bright moon streams coldly
Across our children's graves.

Yours in that quiet grave-yard,
Sleep 'neath the church's shade,

Mine in a far-off country
On a foreign shore is laid.

G