THE GLORY OF DEPARTED INFANTS.

(FROM THE EDINBURGH CHRISTIAN INSTRUCTOR, DEC. 1817.)

THERE is scarce a dwelling into which we can enter, but if we speak of the death of children, the starting tear will tell us that from it some are gone, that the flower of beauty opened but to perish, and that the heart doted on it only to bleed in disappointment and sorrow. "Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears; for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and thy children shall come again from the land of the enemy." (Jer. xxxi. 16.)

You are saying, "Had my children glorified God, this might be expected; I might have hope for their resurrection had that tongue sung his praise, and these hands been lifted up in His name;" but in them He has been honored, though you have neither seen nor known it; and it will be more gratifying to His benevolence to restore them to you than to grant them at first. He who would not permit the disciples to keep back infants from His arms, will not suffer death to detain in the grave the babes He has destined for His bosom. To rescue them He will be the plague

of death and the destruction of the grave, and they who sung not this song before they went to it, shall exclaim as they rise, "O grave, where is thy victory!" But is this all the triumph of departed infants over the last enemy, and him that had the power of death? The spirit, soaring to glory, is more than a conqueror. The lisping babe has been qualified for the song of the Lamb, and from the melody that soothed it to rest, it is gone to those anthems of the blessed, in which it will bear its part in ever-living rapture. Satan hath exulted in the blasted beauty and the early graves of infants, but God has confounded his boastings by clothing them with immortality and perfection, and by raising them to fairer loveliness and sweeter felicity than earth can admit of. The flower, over which the wind passed, is blossoming in heaven in fragrance and beauty, which the fondest workings of fancy could not conceive, and surely it is safer there than under this inclement sky. Thy babe is reposing in the arms of infinite love; Jesus rejoices in its opening excellences, and so mayest thou in faith and hope. The early death of infants has suggested to the heart sunk in despair, as well as raised from the lips of the caviller the expostulation, "Why hath God made any of His creatures in vain?"

But in their translation to glory, this dark dispensation is cleared up, and the merits of the second Adam are delightfully illustrated.

THE

CROWN WITHOUT THE CONFLICT.

MUSINGS ON THE DEATH OF CHILDREN.

REV. R. H. LUNDIE.

AN investigator of pedigrees was searching

in a midland county of England, for any traces that might still be found of an old family of the district. He went to the records of the church, but their name was not there, it had perished. He repaired to the supposed site of their ancient hall. Not a stone remained to tell its place. Disappointed in these attempts, he accosted an aged peasant: "Do you know any thing of the Findernes?"

"Findernes?" was the reply. "We have no Findernes here, but we have Findernes' flowers."

Here was

a clew. The old man led the way to a field where there were traces of an ancient terrace.

"There," said he, pointing to a bank of garden-flowers grown wild, "there are Findernes' flowers, brought by Sir Geoffrey from the Holy Land; and, do what we will, they will never die."

There are those who will read these lines that can go back ten, twenty, forty years, and recall the time when a child was taken from them. It has left no record in the annals of the world; no more mark than the shining pebble that is thrown into the river, when the waters close over it for ever. Is there, then, no trace to be found beneath the heavens of that loved one? Go, ask the mother bereaved so long ago. There, in the old garden of a heart overgrown with many experiences, and shaded with many a sombre spray of ivy, and many a weeping branch of cypress, flourish still the old memories of that cherished child. His winsome ways, his pleasant prattle, his sunny smile, his look of love, are all remembered still. These flowers of memory bloom as fresh as on the day after the little one was gathered home. The snows of winter may have fallen thick upon that mother's head, but touch the old chord, and it will vibrate true and tender as ever. Encourage her to speak upon this theme, and she will pour forth her recollections of her lost one, and will narrate