Oh, how shall I complain

Of Him that rules above

Who sends no needless pain,

Who always smites in love;

Who looks in tenderest pity down,
E'en when He seems to wear a frown.

It dropp'd a holy tear,
When Mary's brother "slept,"

A friend to Jesus dear;

Delightful thought! that blessed eye
Still beams with kindness in the sky.

I know my babe is blest,

Her bliss by Jesus given;

She's early gone to rest,

She's found an early heaven;

The sigh that closed her eyes on earth,

Was signal of her happier birth.

But, ah, my spirits fail,

I feel a pang untold,

Those ruby lips so pale!

That blushing cheek so cold;

And dim those eyes of "dewy light,”

That smiled and glanced so sweetly bright.

To lay that darling form,

So lovely e'en in death, Food for corruption's worm,

The mouldering earth beneath! Oh, worse to me than twice to part, Than second death-stroke to my heart.

As summer-flower she grew,
Expanding to the morn,

All gemm'd with sparkling dew,
A flower without a thorn,

A mother's sweet and lovely flower,
Sweeter and lovelier every hour.

But, ah, my morning bloom

Scarce felt the warming ray ;

An unexpected gloom

Obscured the rising day;

A dreary, cold, and withering blast
Low on the ground its beauties cast.

Its glistening leaves are shed,
That spread so fresh and fair

The balmy fragrance fled,

That scented all the air;
And lowly laid its lifeless form,
The gentle victim of the storm!

But why in anguish weep!

Hope beams upon my view ; 'Tis but a winter's sleep—

My flowers shall spring anew,

Each darling flower in earth that sleeps, O'er which fond memory hangs and weeps ;

All to new life shall rise,

In heavenly beauty bright,
Shall charm my ravish'd eyes,
In tints of rainbow light;
Shall bloom unfading in the skies,
And drink the dews of paradise.

Oh! this is blest relief

My fainting heart it cheers;

It cools my burning grief,

And sweetens all my tears,
Those eyes shall see my darling then,
Nor shed a parting tear agen.

And while my bleeding heart

Laments for comforts gone,

I only mourn apart,

I am not left alone:

Though nightsome buds of opening joy,
How many still my thanks employ,

Loved partner of my grief,
Heaven bids not thee depart,

Of earthly joys the chief;
A favoured wife and mother still,
Let grateful praise my bosom fill.

STANZAS.

By the Rev. William Scott Moncrieff.

"I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder; and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps."-REV. xiv. 2.

HARK! hark¡ 'Tis heaven's choir,
i
Sweeter far than mortal lyre,

Pealing, thrilling, soothing, blending,
Up to heaven's top vault ascending;
Now in deepest thunder rolling,
High the Almighty's power extolling;
And now, in softest sweetness swelling,
Of divinest mercy telling.

Steep, my soul, thy sense in slumbers, And wake but to these mystic numbers. Higher than creation's height,

Deeper than chaotic night,

Far into oblivion's gloom,

Of all that is, or was, the tomb;
Spread these deep, loud notes, afar,
Announcing heaven's impending war.

Quick, at the voice of that live thunder,
Earth and hell are rent asunder:
Hark! it rolls, still louder pealing,
Every secret thing revealing.

Death, and Sin, are fast descending,
All their tyrannies are ending;
Darkness startles on her throne,
For her ancient sway is gone.

The silent solitary earth

Now labours with portentous birth; The mighty deep, in madness, roars, And his long treasured dead restores : Heaven's thunder darkens, deepens on, But cannot drown the deeper moan Bursting from millions, who behold Their doom at length, so oft foretold.