Mourner, when God invites thee there,
Earth's cares and troubles o'er,

Thy child, shall welcome thee to heaven,
And open wide the door.

Epitaph.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

O READER, what a world were this,

How unendurable its weight, if they

Whom Death hath sunder'd did not MEET AGAIN!

"IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD-IT IS WELL."

Is it well with the Child?—It is well."

BIBLE.

"AND when the child was grown, it fell on a day that he went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head! And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And when he had taken him, and brought him to his mother, he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed of the man of God, and shut the door upon him, and went out. And she called unto her husband, and said,

Send me, I pray thee, one of the young men, and one of

the asses, that I may run to the man of God, and come again. And he said, Wherefore wilt thou go to him today? it is neither new moon nor Sabbath. And she said, It shall be well. Then she saddled an ass, and said to her servant, Drive and go forward; slack not thy riding for me, except I bid thee.

So they went, and came unto the man of God to mount Carmel. And it came to pass, when the man of God saw her afar off, that he said to Gehazi his servant, Behold that Shumanite; run now, I pray thee,

to meet her; and say unto her, Is it well with thee? is it well with thy husband? is it well with the child? And she answered, It is well.

"And they brought young children to him, that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come. unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them."

MOURN NOT THE DEAD.

Mourn not the Dead.

ELIZA COOK.

MOURN not the dead, shed not a tear
Above the moss-stain'd sculptured stone,

And weep for those whose living woes
Still yield the bitter, rending groan.

Grieve not to see the eyelids close
In rest that has not fever'd start;

Wish not to break the deep repose
That curtains round the pulseless heart.

But keep thy pity for the eyes

That pray for night, yet fear to sleep, Lest wilder, sadder visions rise

Than those o'er which they waking weep.

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Mourn not the dead, 'tis they alone
Who are the peaceful and the free;
The purest olive-branch is known
To twine about the cypress tree.

Crime, pride, and passion, hold no more
The willing or the struggling slave;
The throbbing pangs of love are o’er,
And hatred dwells not in the grave.

The world may pour its venom❜d blame,
And fiercely spurn the shroud-wrapped bier;
Some few may call upon the name,

And sigh to meet a dull cold ear.

But vain the scorn that would offend,
In vain the lips that would beguile;
The coldest foe, the warmest friend,

Are mock'd by death's unchanging smile.

The only watchword that can tell

Of peace and freedom won by all,

Is echo'd by the tolling bell,

And traced upon the sable pall!