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 worldknown 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, Goodnight!*

* The Empty Crib: a Memorial of Little Georgie, with Words of Consolation for Bereaved Parents. By Rev. Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D., Brooklyn. New-York: R. Carter and Brothers, 1869.

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 favourite 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 stedfast faith, through the Redeemer, of meeting him again, and for ever, can lend a joy to grief.

POETRY.

CASA WAPPY.*

D. M. MOIR, the "Delta" of Blackwood.

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy-

The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?

Pure at thy death, as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell,

As closed thine eye;

Tears of our anguish may not tell

When thou didst die;

Words may not paint our grief for thee,

Sighs are but bubbles on the sea

Of our unfathom'd agony,

Casa Wappy!

* The self-appellative of a beloved child-Charles Bell Moir, who died 17th February, 1838, aged four and a half years. The piece that follows, entitled "Wee Willie," was written upon the death of William Blackwood Moir, who died at the age of fifteen months, on 28th February, 1838.

We feel much indebted to Mrs. Moir for her generous permission, to re-insert "Casa Wappy" and "Wee Willie," and the closing stanzas of "Casa's Dirge."

Thou wert a vision of delight—
To bless us given;

Beauty embodied to our sight-
A type of heaven:

So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self than a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline

'Twas cloudless joy;

Sunrise and night alone were thine,

Beloved boy!

This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear sweet child!

Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;

Yet had we hoped that Time should see

Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,

Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will,

Thou meet'st my sight;

There dost thou glide before me still-
A form of light!

I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till oh! my heart is like to break,

Casa Wappy!

Methinks thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth;

The hair thrown back from thy full brow,
In buoyant health:

I see thine eyes' deep violet light,
Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright,
Thy clasping arms so round and white,
Casa Wappy!

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,

Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?

A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings idly scattered there
But speak to us of our despair,

Casa Wappy!

Even to the last, thy every word—
To glad to grieve-

Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;

In outward beauty undecay'd,

Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,

And like the rainbow thou didst fade,

Casa Wappy!

We mourn for thee, when blind blank night

The chamber fills;

We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;

The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All-to the wall-flower and wild-pea-

Are changed: we saw the world thro' thee,

Casa Wappy!