Two years with Christ! It is joy to know that our child has been two years with the Saviour, in his immediate presence; learning of him, and making heaven vocal with songs of rapture and love. The blessed Saviour took little children in his arms when he was here on earth, and he takes them in his bosom there. Blessed Jesus! blessed children! blessed child! us; he He often wept when he was with suffered much before he died: seven days and nights he was torn with fierce convul sions ere his soul yielded and fled to heaven. But now for two years he has not wept. He has known no pain for two years. That little child, who was pleased with a rattle, now meets with angels and feels himself at home. He walks among the tallest spirits that bend in the presence of the Infinite, and is as free and happy as any who are there. And when we think of joys that are his, we are more than willing that he should stay where he now dwells, though our house is darkened by the shadow of his grave, and our hearts are aching all the time for his return. Long and weary have been the years without him; but they have been blessed years to him in heaven. "Even so, Father." "Not our will, but thine be done." I SEE that "one is not" in your household, and that you have learned what that Scripture meaneth, "and so death came by sin." Death is a stern teacher, but I trust that you have found new and precious experiences in this new road which you have been called to travel. Count it no strange thing, for this is the King's highway, over which all the ransomed pass. There is not a house where there has not been one dead; and if your house be desolate, let your heart be full of glad thanksgivings that it is "the Lord who gave, and the Lord who has taken away." You have now new attractions in the eternal world to draw your hearts thither. Every thing is moving on to higher conditions, and your own hearts should be constantly going upwards. May God give you grace, and fill you with his peace! Hymns and Poems. The Dying Child. INSCRIBED TO MR. AND MRS. S. I. PRIME, ON THE DEATH OF THEIR YOUNGEST SON. How calm, how beautiful he lies! As sunlight falls his wavy hair Across that noble brow, so fair, That the blue veins seem penciled there, No quivering of the lid or chin So noiseless sinks his breath, That if those cheeks did not disclose That, like a bright thought, comes and goes, |