For the Mother's Magazine.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS.

[Our readers, who have been interested in perusing the articles in the Magazine signed CITHERA, will doubtless be gratified by the following tribute to her excellent character.]

"We shall all know what it is to pass alone through the dark valley of Death."

What art thou, dark and fearful Death,
Unknown-mysterious power-

Still dreaded, though thy withering breath
Draws nearer every hour!

Millions, thou conqueror of kings
Have passed thy gates of gloom
And every fleeting moment brings
New travellers to the tomb.
O! that from yon eternal sphere
Some soul might bend below,
And whisper to my longing ear,
What none, but spirits know.
And tell me of the valley drear.

O'er which thine arm hath sway,
The pangs unknown-the gloomy fear,
The terrors of the way.

But late there was an angel mind

That sought its native Heaven,
And left the beauteous clay behind,
For its trail dwelling given.
In the lone stillness of the night
I stood beside the bed,

Where shrouded in celestial white

Reposed the lovely dead.

There was no trace of anguish there,

By the last pang impressed

But all was calm and heavenly fair

E'en like an angel's rest.

"How blest thy lot," twas thus I spake,

Thou gentle child of song,

Thus early called, thy lyre to wake,

Among the angelic throng!

Too fair a flower for earth's bleak clime

Where gathering storms o'erwhelm,
Transplanted in thy sweet spring time
To yonder cloudless realm!

Tis not for thee, a seraph bright

This tear of sorrow falls,

Tis for the hearts that break to night
Within those lonely walls!

Thou wert their hope-their joy erewhue
Companion-daughter-wife!

How can they tread without thy smile

The dreary path of life.

They'll miss thy voice so silvery sweet
Thy mildly beaming eye
And starting at approaching feet
Will fondly think thee nigh.

O come when night its shadow flings
Though beautiful, and blest,
Come hover on thy shining wings
Around their place of rest.
Sweet guardian, all their steps attend
Till life's dark stream be past,
Then with an angel band descend
And bear them home at last.
To heaven, that fair, unchanging sphere
Whose bliss, I long to know,
And yet I shrink with boding fear

Through death's dim vale to go.
Thou, who hast past the gloomy shade
And reached eternal day,

Say, was thy heaven-bound soul dismayea

Along the fearful way?

Would that those silent lips might speak

An answer to my heart,

But thou art voiceless- what I seek,
The dead can ne'er impart.
Voiceless! O no thou dearest best,

That smile makes kind reply
Supported on my Saviour's breast
I found it sweet to die."

O! will no fears my soul assail,

On that approaching night,

When the dark monarch shall unvai

His terrors to my sight?

Jesus kind helper from above,

In that dread hour of doom,
O bear me in thine arms of love
Securely through the gloom.

Is this habit of mind, to which we alluded in the preceding chapter, either wise or philosophical? What is nature of which we speak so often, and to whose agency we attribute such vast and varied results? The seed is cast into the earth, and it shoots up into a stalk, and this puts forth leaves, and flowers, and fruits; and we say this is nature's work. Now what do we mean in such a case? Do we mean that some power that does not think, that does not plan, devise, contrive, or execute-some power that does not act-produces these wonderful results? If we mean this, then we are involved in the absurdity of attributing actions to that which does not act; of assigning contrivance to that which does not contrive; of imputing thought, where there is no mind. We reason as unwisely as he who attributes a water wheel, a watch or a clock, to blind accident or unthinking chance.

To place this subject in its true light, and correct this current error, let us enter into a cursory examination of some of the works of creation, as exhibited in what are called the three kingdoms of nature, and see how clearly they are the works of a designing mind. In the first place, we turn to the vegetable kingdom. This we find distributed into an almost infinite variety of shrubs, plants, and trees. Every region is thronged with its appropriate vegetation. The meadows are decorated with flowers of every graceful form, and tinted with all the glowing hues of the VOL. VIII. No. 6.

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rainbow. The valley and the hill side, the marsh and the mountain have all their varied and appropriate garniture. Every climate, from the tropics to the frozen zone-every spot of earthevery portion of the sea, is marked with the energies of vegetable life.

In this boundless kingdom of nature there are, at least, one hundred thousand different species, and probably more. Yet throughout all these, it is to be remarked that they are propagated by seeds. Upon these, therefore, their continuance, their multiplication, and their dissemination chiefly depend.

Now let us go into the fields, and see how carefully the author of these works has provided for bringing these seeds to maturity. Let us go into a field of wheat, and observe how nicely the head, or ear, is wrapped up by the leaves to protect it from the chill evenings of spring, from the rain and driving tempest, and from the midday sun, until it is sufficiently hardy to bear exposure. The leaves are then gradually unfolded, and each seed, still protected with a case, is opened to the ripening influence of the season. Look at the peas in the garden, and see how they are encased in pods, lined with a pellicle, as smooth as velvet. Look at the ears of Indian corn; how securely they are wrapped in the husk, and tasselled with silk to admit the air, and yet exclude the rain. Look at the cotton plant, which folds its seeds in a luxurious bed as soft as down, seeming like the tender care of a mother for her infant. Look at the bur of the chesnut which defends the nut from birds and squirrels till it is ripened, and then opens to the magic touch of November's frost. Look at the walnut, encased in a bitter rind till it has reached maturity, and then shelled freely down upon the earth. Look at the acorn, the butternut, the apple, the peach, the pear, the plum, and see in all these, even while they are destined to contribute to the support of animal life, with what vigilant care, by what endless contrivance, what diversified expedients, the maturity and perfection of their various seeds, are secured. In all these, from the humblest plant, to the richest production of the garden, we see a fertility of invention, and a skill in execution which knows no bounds. In each

and all of these, we see incontestible proofs of a mind that thinks, plans and contrives-of a Being who resolves, acts and executes.

Let us go one step farther back, and consider the seeds themselves. How enfinitely varied are these in their forms and structures, and what surpassing ingenuity is displayed in every one of them. Consider the single seed of clover, and remember that within that little globe, not larger than the smallest pin's head, there is all the minute mechanism of the future stem, and leaves, and flowers. What ingenuity of contrivance is shown in this single instrument of nature's works! How infinitely does even this transcend the boasted ingenuity of man! How strongly does it set forth the fact that every portion of the vegetable kingdom is the work of a Being that thinks, contrives, and acts! How conclusively does it show that even in those silent processes which are going on beneath the soil, and which we pass by as too common to merit observation, the almighty gardner is at work, planting, watering and warming into life the myriad objects of his

care.

And let us not omit another consideration which is, that every seed must receive that mysterious gift which we call life. But for this, it is only the shrouded corse that must forever sleep the sleep of death. If there be not some voice that bids it awake and arise from its lowly bed; some voice like that which said, "Lazarus come forth" and was obeyed-some voice that said, "Peace! be still, and even the winds and waves listened"—if there be not some voice like this to bid the silent elements stir the seed into life-its stem will never rise-its leaves will never shoot forth-its flowers will never be unfolded. Let the author of life withold his spirit from the vegetable kingdom, and every seed will rest in its tomb forever. In vain will it call upon nature, or nature's laws, for these live but upon the lips of the Almighty.

(To be continued.)