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Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines, and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.
She sat a little longer, and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourned :

“God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ;
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook

Upon thy brow to look,
And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!

And could I see thee die!

I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazel, among the flowers ;

Or wearing rosy hours,
By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,

So beautiful and deep.

Oh no! and when I watched by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,

And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile,
How prayed I that my father's land might be

A heritage for thee!

And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;

And oh! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there

Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.


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Thy will be done ! how hard a thing to say
When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell,
When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay,
Wander around with dimly conscious ray,
To some familiar face, to bid farewell !
Thy will be done! the falt'ring lips deny
A passage to the tones as yet unheard ;
The sob convulsed, the raised and swimming eye
Seem as appealing to their God on high
For power to breathe the yet imperfect word.
Orphan! who watchest by the silent tomb,
Where those, who gave thee life, all coldly sleep :
Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home,
Calling to those beloved who cannot come,
And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep!
Widow! who musest over by-gone years
Of life, and love, and happiness with him
Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Who now art left to shed unnoticed tears,
Till thy fair cheek is and

eyes grow dim!
Husband! who dreamest of thy gentle wife,
And still in fancy seest her rosy smile
Brightening a world of bitterness and strife;
Who from the lonely future of thy life
Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while!
Mother! whose prayers could not avail to save
Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy!
Who, with a bitter agony, dost rave


To the wild winds that fan his early grave,
And dashedst from thy lips the cup of joy!

Mourners ! who linger in a world of woe,
Each, bowing 'neath his separate load of grief !
Turn from the silent tomb, and, kneeling low
Before that throne at which the angels bow,
Invoke a God of mercy for relief.

Pray that ye too may journey, when ye die,
To that far world where blessed souls are gone,
And, through the gathering sob of agony,
Raise, with a voice resigned, the humble cry,
“Father! Creator ! Lord! thy will be done !"




Tell me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow,

Find us further than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act!-act in the living Present,

Heart within, and God o'er head.
Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er lite's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.




MATERNAL INFLUENCE. The minds of children are easily interested, as every thing is new to them, and a new and most beautiful world is opening before them, with all the attractions of nature and art. Their capacities expand astonishingly, with even moderate instruction, if it be systematic and regular, as it leads them to investigation and inquiry, far beyond the sphere of the instructions they receive. At this time, how necessary it is, to endeavor to stamp upon their minds some salutary truths, not to be effaced. The works of nature present an extensive field for instruction, wherein a child may be soon taught to acknowledge the existence of a Supreme Being, from the convictions of reason.

In connection with the book of nature, the Bible should be the first book used, from whence to draw our precepts, as containing instruction suitable to the earliest age. It is not necessary to wait until the child is able to read for itself. The best mode of presenting instruction is by familiar verbal communication. Its truths are thus better remembered, and in this manner, too, a large portion of the Bible can be condensed into a small compass.

Give the young minds subjects for thought; they are ever active, ever busy; and, if not provided with proper aliment by those who have the care of them, they will resort to something themselves, which may be adverse in its influence.

The precepts of the gospel are ennobling and refining in a high degree; and they will ere long show their effects upon the mind, trained in their discipline. I have often been led to observe the striking difference between children who have been brought up according to the wisdom of this world, and of those, taught according to the gospel; how much more expanded is the young mind of one, instructed in the gospel precepts; how much more elevated in its character; how much more ready to sympathize with suffering, and to respond to benevolent and noble sentiments. It has partaken of the true and proper food of the soul, and by it has flourished and become vigorous. It is the fostering atmosphere of the nursery, where the form is given to the young and tender plant. A celebrated artist once said, my mother's kiss made me a painter. How many thousands might say, my mother's kiss made me a christian or an infidel, a useful or a useless member of society.

If mothers wish to know the extensive influence which their precepts and examples exert, either for good or evil, upon the career and destiny of their children, they need only refer to some striking examples for proof sufficient to establish this fact. In observing, and reading the history of great and good men, the thought rarely occurs, that they have once been children, have passed through the helpless years of infancy, and have been acted upon by influences which have formed their characters; and yet, if we should trace their goodness or their crimes to the right source, we should find, that, for the most part, the seeds of early influence have produced the correspond

And I have no doubt, that, could we know the history of very many philanthropists, we should find, that the seeds of their usefulness had been sown in the nursery, and the germs fostered by the kind and gentle instruction of some CHRISTIAN MOTHER, whose voice sounded like music on the ear, and whose sympathy fell like balm upon the heart, grieved by the little trials and pains of childhood. Mrs. A. WIELPLEY.

ing fruit.

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