When the destroyer smote her low
And changed the lover's bliss to woe.

And these three listen'd to the song,
Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong,
Which that child, the live-long day,
Chanted to itself in play :

"When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, But a good God reigns over all."

The widow's lips impulsive moved;
The mother's grief, though unreproved,
Softened, as her trembling tongue
Repeated what the infant sung;
And the sad lover, with a start,
Conn'd it over to his heart.

And though the child-if child it were,
And not a seraph sitting there-
Was seen no more, the sorrowing three
Went on their way resignedly,
The song still ringing in their ears-
Was it music of the spheres?

Who shall tell? They did not know,—
But in the midst of deepest woe
The strain recurred when sorrow grew,
To warn them, and console them too:
"When the wind blows, the blossoms fall,
But a good God reigns over all."

CHARLES MACKAY.

A REMEMBRANCE.

I see thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingled with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm!

In visions of the midnight deep,

Thine accents through my bosom thrill,

Till joy's fond impulse bids me weepFor, wrapt in thought I see thee still. I see thee still-that cheek of roseThose lips, with dewy fragrance wet, That forehead in serene repose

Those soul-lit eyes-I see them yet! Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not deadThou gracest still this earthly sphere, An influence still is round me shed,

Like thine-and yet thou art not here.

Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight,
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom;
No more thy smiles inspire delight,
For thou art garnered in the tomb.
Rich harvest for that ruthless power
Which hath no bound to mar his will:
Yet as in hope's unclouded hour,
Throned in my heart, I see thee still.

REST FOR THE WEARY.

In the Christian's home in glory
There remains a Land of Rest,
There my Savior's gone before me
To fulfil my soul's request.

There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you-
On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the Tree of Life is blooming-
There is rest for you.

Christ is fitting up a mansion,

Which eternally shall stand,

For my stay will not be transient
In that holy, happy land.

Pain nor sickness ne'er shall enter,
Grief nor woe my lot will share,
But in that celestial Center,

I a crown of life shall wear.

Death itself shall then be vanquished
And his sting shall be withdrawn;
Shout for gladness, O ye ransomed,
Hail with joy the rising morn.

Sing, O sing, ye heirs of glory;
Shout your triumph, as ye go;
Zion's gates will open for you,

You shall find an entrance through.

There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you-
On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the Tree of Life is blooming-
There is rest for you.

LITTLE BESSIE;

AND THE WAY IN WHICH SHE FELL ASLEEP.

Hug me closer, closer, mother,

Put your arms around me tight,

I am cold and tired, mother,

And I feel so strange to-night;

Something hurts me here, dear mother,

Like a stone upon my breast,

O! I wonder, wonder, mother,
Why it is I cannot rest.

All the day, while you were working
As I lay upon my bed,

I was trying to be patient,

And to think of what you said,— How the kind and blessed Jesus

Loves his lambs to watch and keep,
And I wished he'd come and take me
In his arms, that I might sleep.

Just before the lamp was lighted,
Just before the children came,
While the room was very quiet,
I heard some one call my name;
All at once the window opened;
In a field were lambs and sheep-
Some from out a brook were drinking,
Some were lying fast asleep;

But I could not see the Savior,
Though I strained my eyes to see;
And wondered if he saw me,
If he'd speak to such as me;
In a moment I was looking

On a world so bright and fair,
Which was full of little children,
And they seemed so happy there;

They were singing, oh! how sweetly;
Sweeter songs I never heard;
They were singing sweeter, mother,
Than can sing our yellow bird;
And while I my breath was holding,
ONE, so bright, upon me smiled,
And I knew it must be Jesus,

When he said, Come here my child.'

'Come up here, my little Bessie,
Come up here and live with me,
Where the children never suffer,
But are happier than you see.'
Then I thought of all you'd told me

Of that bright and happy land;
I was going when you called me,
When you came and kissed
my hand.

And at first I felt so sorry

You had called me; I would go ;
Oh! to sleep, and never suffer;-
Mother don't be crying so!
Hug me closer, closer, mother,
Put your arms around me tight,
Oh! how much I love you, mother;
But I feel so strange to night.

And the mother pressed her closer
To her overburdened breast;
On the heart so near to breaking
Lay the heart so near its rest;
In the solemn hour of midnight,
In the darkness calm and deep,
Lying on her mother's bosom,
Little Bessie fell asleep.

BABY ALICE.

'Twas a sad and tearful group that stood
Around the baby's bed,

List'ning with hushed and reverent ears
For the death-angel's tread;

For a message well we knew he bore
Straight from the Father's throne,

To summon a young sinless soul
Up to its heavenly home.

He came; but O, so softly stole

Upon that sacred gloom,

That we knew not when his shadowy wing

Had sanctified the room;

For e'en as we watched the sweet pale face,