ee

Carrie," or 'Our Darling." Close beside the

narrow bed, so dear to me, lie a pair of children in one spot, and on the tiny marble above them is carved this sweet verse:

"Under the daisies two graves are made,
Under the daisies our treasures are laid.
Under the daisies? It cannot be thus;

We are sure that in heaven they wait for us.”

What a celestial cheerfulness breathes in such words! How like to a guardian angel's song! There are other inscriptions scattered through the cemetery which are equally redolent of Christian hope and immortality. For example, on a stately monument is written only the name of the dead, and on the other side of the granite shaft the simple, thrilling announcement," The Lord is Risen!"

Several tombs bear the single line, "Our Mother." No inscription in the whole city of the dead touched me so tenderly as the one word, "Good-night," on the tomb of a young wife. Perhaps this was her last utterance as the twilight of the "valley" fell upon her advancing footsteps. Among many carved clusters of lilies, myrtles, and violets, we often discovered on the monuments of God's departed children this flower, from the Holy Spirit's own hand: "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." This is the amaranth

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which angels wreathe above the sainted dead. How fragrant it is with the love of Jesus; how dewy with precious promises; how it glitters in the light which falls from the sapphire walls of the New Jerusalem! Matchless line: that never grows old, and never stales its heavenly freshness! If there be any line which the ministering spirits" chant above the sleeping dust of Christ's blood-bought heirs of glory, it must be this one which the Spirit taught to the beloved John. Not as a dreary dirge do they chant it; not as a melancholy requiem: it is a jubilant pæan of triumph over those who have come off more than conquerors, - whose achievements are complete, and for whom wait the "robes made white in the blood of the Lamb."

To me, the most captivating view is from Sylvan Cliff, overlooking Sylvan Water. On that green brow stands a monument which bears the figure of Faith kneeling before a cross, and beneath it the world-known lines of Toplady :

"Nothing in my hand I bring,

Simply to Thy cross I cling!"

As I stood beside that graceful tablet yesterday, the light of an October sun threw its mellow radiance over the crimsoning foliage, and the green turf, and the sparkling water of

the fountain which played in the vale beneath. In the distance was the placid bay, with one stately ship resting at anchor, a beautiful emblem of a Christian soul whose voyage had ended in the peaceful repose of the "desired haven." The sun went down into the purpling horizon as I stood there; a bird or two was twittering its evening song; the air was as silent as the unnumbered sleepers around me; and, turning toward the sacred spot where my precious dead is lying, I bade him, as of old, Good-night!

A THORNLESS SORROW.

D. M. MOIR, THE

"DELTA" OF "BLACKWOOD."

[The following is an extract from a letter, dated Musselburgh, 8th January, 1845, addressed by Dr. Moir, on the receipt of a favorite volume, to a friend, whose child he had been attending professionally: -]

THE gift has only one drawback. Would, so far as our weak eyes can see, that it had been ordained that I should receive it from other hands than yours! This was not to be, and for wise purposes, although we see them not. The loss and the grief are to those who are left behind: to him these cannot be. Yet a little while, and the end cometh to us also;

and we, who would detain those we love, ourselves almost as quickly go.

Speaking from sad experience, a long time must yet elapse ere you and his mother will be able to look back on your deprivation with philosophic and unimpassioned minds, or be able to dissever the what must be from the what might have been. But when that time does come, you will find that the lamentation for an innocent child is a thornless sorrow; and that the steadfast faith, through the Redeemer, of meeting him again, and for ever, can lend a joy to grief.

POETRY.

FA

WEE WILLIE.

D. M. MOIR.

ARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!

God, who lent thee, had recall'd thee

Back, with Him and His to dwell: Fifteen moons their silver lustre

Only o'er thy brow hath shed, When thy spirit join'd the seraphs, And thy dust the dead.

Like a sunbeam, thro' our dwelling

Shone thy presence, bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure,
To our sorrows thou wert balm;
Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer;
And thy first attempt at speech
Thrill'd our heartstrings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,

With thy fine fair locks outspread,

Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who to earth from heaven had stray'd,