"Tis hard, when they in death are laid

O'er whom we watched, and wept, and prayed. The wife-the parent-sister-son

To say, "O Lord! Thy will be done."

'Tis hard, when, in our soul's distress,
And all around is wilderness,

And herb and quickening stream are none,
To say, "O Lord! Thy will be done."

And yet, how light such sorrows be
To His, in dark Gethsemane—
Who drank the cup with stifled groan,
And said, "O Lord! Thy will be done."

LUCY.

WORDSWORTH.

SHE dwelt in the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were few to praise,
very few to love.

And

A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hid from human eye,

Clear as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But now she's in her grave, and Oh!

The difference to me.

ELLEN.

LYTE.

3

SHE sleeps beneath her native earth,
Close to the spot that gave her birth.
Her young feet trod the flowers that bloom---
Meet emblems on her early tomb:
Her living voice was wont to cheer
The echoes which our sorrows hear.

She rests beneath her native earth;
And few remain to speak her worth.
Her little sojourn here was spent
In unobtrusive banishment:
A flower upon the desert thrown,
That breathed and lived to God alone.

Yet long her gentle ways shall dwell
In hearts that knew and loved her well;
And oft they lift their tearful eyes,
To hear her calling from the skies;
And ill could they her absence bear,
But that they hope to join her there.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.

ΑΝΟΝ.

WHY should I tell how pure, how bright,
My Sister! was thy early bloom,
If memory did not oft invite

To weave poor chaplets round thy tomb? We were but two, the rest were gone,

And our young hearts so close were twisted As if, deserted and alone,

We only on this orb existed.

Like two young plants in joy we grew,
The glory of a widowed mother;
We lived and loved, and always knew
Each thought, each feeling of the other.
If e'er I smiled; her gentle eye

Was seen at once with joy to brighten;
If e'er I grieved, a sister's sigh

Begged half the load, my grief to lighten.

They found her; on her wan white arm
Gently reclined her drooping head:
With cheek so bright, with brow so calm,
It could not be; she was not dead!

They raised her; she had fallen asleep!
She, to whom all our love was given,
Had left us here alone to weep;

Had fallen asleep, to wake in heaven.

And so they closed that clear blue eye,

Which seemed to smile on friends around her; As if, while mounting to the sky,

Her God e'en now with joy had crowned her. And then they took the unconscious dead; They brought it o'er the briny wave; And I a weeping child was led

To sorrow o'er my sister's grave.

But now long years have flitted by;
Now, kneeling at my sister's tomb,
I think of immortality:

Her spirit feels no blight or gloom:
I think of her, the pure, the bright;
I seem to see her stand before me;
And better thoughts and softer light,
E'en as I kneel, come stealing o'er me!

TRANSLATION OF AN EVENING HYMN OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.

THE loved hour of repose is striking; let us come to the sunset tree: let us lie down in the pleasant shade. Ah! how sweet is rest after labour! How I pity those who lie all day long on the couch of down, and are fatigued with doing nothing: they know not the sweetness of rest like ours!

Sweet is this hour of repose, and sweet is the repose of the Sabbath-day; but

sweeter will be the repose of that long Sabbath when we shall all rest from our labours in the presence of our heavenly Father. There will be no sun to burn us, there will be no toil--no pain -no poverty-no sorrow--no sin--but sweet and long will be our rest in Heaven.

A RECEIPT FOR HAPPINESS.

ANON.

TRAVERSE the world, go fly from pole to pole,
Go, far as winds can blow, or waters roll;
All, all is vanity beneath the sun,

To certain death, through different paths we run;
Ambition's votaries, groan beneath its weight,
The splendid riches of the toils of state.
Lo! in the mantling bowl sweet poisons flow;
Love's softest pleasures terminate in woe:
Even Learning ends her vast career in doubt,
And puzzling on makes nothing clearly out.
Where then is sovereign bliss? where doth it grow?
Know, mortal! happiness ne'er dwelt below.
Look towards heaven, to heaven thy only care;
Spurn the vile earth, go seek thy treasure there:
A virtuous course, and heaven alone, you'll find
Can fill a boundless and immortal mind.