"My God is reconciled,

His pardoning voice I hear;
He owns me for his child,

I can no longer fear;

With confidence I now draw nigh,
And, Father, Abba, Father, cry!"

She said to her dear mother next morning that she had had a joyful night; and her countenance plainly indicated that she had indeed experienced a change from bondage to liberty. She was enabled to hold fast her confidence steadfast unto the end. She trusted only in the Lord for pardon and salvation, and experienced the truth of that scripture which says, They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abideth for ever." As she grew weaker in body, the enemy of souls tried to perplex her mind, by presenting different temptations; but she was enabled to flee to her Saviour for help, and by this means she was kept in peace. She submitted to the will of God in all her sufferings, and endured them patiently; a murmur was never heard to escape her lips. When questioned as to the state of her mind, she gave scriptural and satisfactory replies; and it was evident that the Lord was her portion. It was daily manifest that though she was both suffering and sinking, her Saviour was making her

"Meet through consecrated pain,
To see the face divine."

While the clay tenement was thus dissolving, she could say, “I have a building above, an house not made with hands." Her voice had almost left her, so that it was with difficulty she could be heard, yet her Lord was with her; and her mother requested her, if she should not be able to speak, to signify with her hands that she was happy. On the morning of the Sabbath which terminated her pains, it was plain that she was approaching the close of her earthly career. She lingered till about noon; and just before she expired, she raised both her hands, showing that in the dark valley and shadow of death her Saviour was with her, "the strength of her heart, and her portion for ever." PHILIP GARRETT.

Turn to the sister Pleiades, and ask

If there be death in heaven? a blight to fall
Upon the brightness of unfrosted hair?

A severing of fond hearts? a place of graves?
Our sympathies are with you, stricken stars,
Clustering so closely round the lost one's place.
Too well we know the hopeless toil to hide
The chasm in love's fond circle; the lone seat
Where the meek grandsire, with his silver locks,
Reclined so happily; the fireside chair

Whence the fond mother fled; the cradle turn'd
Against the wall, and empty; well we know
The untold anguish, when some dear one falls.
Too oft the life-blood trickling from our hearts
Reveals a kindred spirit torn away.

Tears are our birthright, gentle sister train,
And more we love you that like us ye mourn.

Belted Orion! with thy lion shield!

What tidings from the chace? what monster slain ?
Runn'st thou a tilt with Taurus? or dost rear
Thy weapon for more stately tournament ?

Fair Queen Cassiopeia! is thy court
Well peopled with chivalrous hearts that pay
Due homage to thy beauty? Thy levee,
Still is it throng'd as in thy palmy youth?
Is there no change of dynasty? no dread
Of revolution mid the titled peers
That age on age have served thee?

Teach us how

To make our sway perennial in the hearts
Of those that love us; so that, when our bloom
And spring-tide wither, they, in phalanx firm,
May gird us round, and make life's evening bright.

But thou, O Sentinel! with changeless eye,
Guarding the northern battlement of heaven,
For whom the seven pure spirits nightly burn
Their torches, marking out, with glittering spire,
Both hours and seasons on thy dial-plate;
How turns the storm-tost mariner to thee!
The poor, lost Indian, having nothing left
In this his ancient realm-not even the bones
Of his dead fathers-lifts his brow to thee,
And glads his broken spirit with thy beam.
The weary caravan, with chiming bells,
Making strange music 'mid the desert sands,
Guides, by thy pillar'd fires, its nightly march.
Reprov'st thou not our faith, so oft untrue
To the Great Pole Star, when some surging wave
Foams o'er our feet, or thorns beset our way?

Speak out the wisdom of thy hoary years,
Arcturus! patriarch! monarch of the train,
That gather radiance from thy golden urn.
We're but of yesterday-short-sighted sons
Of this dim orb, and all our proudest love
Is but the alphabet of ignorance:
Yet, ere we trace its little round, we die :-
Give us good counsel, ere we pass away.

Lyra! sweet Lyra! sweeping on with song,
While glorious summer decks the listening flowers,
Teach us thy melodies; for sinful cares

Make discord in our hearts. Hast thou the ear
Of the fair planets that encircle thee
As children round a hearth-stone?

Can'st thou quell
Their woes with music? or their infant eyes
Lull to soft sleep? Do thy young daughters join
Thine evening hymn? Or does thine Orphean art
Touch the warm pulses of thy neighbour stars
And constellations, till they higher lift
The pilgrim-staff, to run their glorious way?

Hail, mighty Sirius! monarch of the stars!
Whose golden sceptre subject worlds obey.
May we, in this poor planet, speak to thee?
Thou highest dweller in the highest heaven.
Say, art thou nearer to His throne, whose nod

Doth govern all things? Hear'st thou the strong wing
Of the archangel, as it broadly sweeps

The empyrean to the furthest orb,

Bearing Heaven's watchword? Know'st thou what report
The red-hair'd Comet, on his car of flame,

Brings the recording seraph? Hast thou heard
One whisper through the opening gate of heaven,
When the pale stars shall fall, and yon blue arch
Be as a shrivell'd scroll? Thou answerest not!
Why question we with thee, Eternal Fire,-
We, frail and blind, to whom our own dark moon,
With her red phases, is a mystery?

Back to the dust, most arrogant! Be still!
Deep silence is thy wisdom! Ask no more!

But let thy life be one long sigh of prayer,
One hymn of praise, till, from the broken clay,
At its last gasp, the unquench'd spirit rise,
And, unforgotten, mid unnumber'd worlds,
Ascend to Him from whom its essence came.
Hartford, Connecticut. (U. S.)

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

"THOU hast first

Begun the travel of eternity.

I gaze amid the stars

And think that thou art there,

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee."-SOUTHEY.

WHY should we mourn for thee,

Thou loved, departed one?

Why weep that thou art free,

That thou the palm hast won?

Far fitter theme for joy,

That early thou hast fled

To yon bright world, where base alloy

From bliss is banished.

For earth was vain to bless,
Thy spirit soar'd above,
And sought a lasting peace
Mid scenes of perfect love.
'Twas thine to catch by faith

One glimpse of glory bright;
Thy soul its fetters spurn'd beneath,
And burst to purer light.

But yet, O can we cease

To mourn that thou art gone,
Through lasting calm and peace,
And glory all thine own?
Still fond affection twines

Her wreath of love for thee,
And deep in hidden cells enshrines
The loved one's memory.

For hearts there were that clung
To thine with changeless truth,
And hopes on thee that hung,
Bright hopes of ardent youth.
But many a scene once fair,

Is sadden'd now and lone,

Since fled the form that loved to share

The gladness o'er it thrown.

Yes, thou art gone; and far

Beyond this world of care,

Thou shinest as the morning star,
As glorious, and as fair.

As glorious? O thy light
Eclipses thousand stars;

Thy rapture, sin, nor error's night,

Nor death, nor sorrow mars.

Then fare thee well! 'Tis ours
To wander still below;

Yet hope's perennial flowers

Shall cheer each thought of woe.

Brigg, 1838.

'Tis not in death to part

The loved for evei,-no!

Soon shall we meet where heart with heart
Shall endless union know.

ADELINE.

WHERE, WHERE IS REST?

WHERE, where is rest?—

Is it on earth?

Does wealth make its possessor blest?
Or lofty birth?

Or can the echoing trump of fame
Speak peace at heart?

Or titles pended to a name

True rest impart ?

Ah, no! in these, mortals may not be blest:
Wealth, birth, fame, titles, ne'er imparted rest.
Where, where is rest?-

In friendship's glow?

Or can soft love, this brightest gift and best
Diffuse below?

Are clouds and darkness, cares and sorrows, chased
By learning's beam ?

Or are the ills of life's low vale displaced

Ah, no!

By poet's dream?

Friends die; we mourn the dearest, best.—

Love, learning, poesy, ne'er imparted rest.

Look to the cross: by grief and sin opprest

Thy Saviour says,

66

Hail, holy rest

Come, I will give thee rest."

In Jesus found!

Here storms may beat, and cares disturb my breast,

Pass through death's stream: mount: mingle with the blest:

Hark! angels chant, Welcome to endless rest!

December, 1838.

MARIANNE.

London: R. Needham, Printer, 1, Belle-Sauvage-Yard, Ludgate-Hill.