Dirge for a Young Girl.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

UNDERNEATH the sod now lying, dark and drear,
Sleepeth one who left in dying, sorrow here.

Yes, they're ever bending o'er her eyes that weep; Forms that to the cold grave bore her vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining, soft and fair, Friends she loved in tears are twining chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, throned above;
Souls like thine, with God inherit life and love!

DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

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Death of the Virtuous.

A. P. PEABODY.

Do we mourn over virtuous friends, suddenly snatched from the large and cherished place which they filled in our affections? Glory be to Jesus, that we mourn not without hope! Our homes are made desolate; but the grave is desolate also. It imprisons not the beloved who have parted from us: we go thither to weep, and the angel of the resurrection meets us; the voice steals over us, "They are not here, they are risen." Death is swallowed up in victory. They die no more, but are as the angels of God. The Lamb who is in the midst of the throne, shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. A veil, indeed, must hang for a while between them and us. They and we must, for a season, pursue separate paths of duty, in separate mansions of our Father's house, yet not divided. It it still one house and one family. Yet your faith is weak. We think too much of the dark coffin and the lonely grave, with which the departed have far less connec

tion than ourselves. But could we lift our thoughts to the abode of their glory, could we catch the hymn-note of their joy, could we get a momentary glimpse of their blissful state, it would arm us with fortitude to bear our loss, fill us with thankfulness for their unspeakable gain, and urge us ever onward and upward with unfaltering steps in the path which they trod before us.

Life, Death, and Eternity.

ANONYMOUS.

A SHADOW moving by one's side,
That would a substance seem,
That is, yet is not-though descried,
Like skies beneath the stream:
A tree that's ever in the bloom,
Whose fruit is never ripe,

A wish for joys that never come,
Such are the hopes of LIFE.

A dark, inevitable night,

A blank that will remain,
A waiting for the morning light,
When waiting is in vain,—

CHRIST THE SOURCE OF COMFORT.

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A gulf where pathway never led
To show the depth beneath,

A thing we know not, yet we dread,
That dreaded thing is DEATH.

The vaulted void of purple sky,
That everywhere extends,
That stretches from the dazzled eye,

In space that never ends-
A morning, whose uprisen sun
No setting e'er shall see,

A day that comes without a moon,
Such is ETERNITY.

Christ the Source of Comfort.

GRANT.

WHEN mourning o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend;
And from his voice, his hand, his smile,
Divides me for a little while;

Thou Saviour mark'st the tears I shed,

For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.

And oh when I have safely passed
Through every conflict but the last,
Still, still unchanging, watch beside
My painful bed-for thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.

Separation.

ANONYMOUS.

WHEN forced to part from those we love,

If sure to meet to-morrow,
We still a pang of anguish prove,

And feel a touch of sorrow.

But who can paint the briny tears
We shed when thus we sever,
If forced to part, for months, for years,
To part-perhaps for ever!

ANSWER.

But if our thoughts are fixed aright,
A cheering hope is given,

Though here our prospects end in night,
We meet again in heaven.