Our father is--oh! bless his name--
Your little face was decked with smiles,
Dear child, just when the summons came.
Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst
Nought to mar thy little frame.
While ye mourn the dear departed,
Each bitter feeling disallow;
Look to heaven, ye broken hearted,
Look, and with submission bow.
In thy hour of deepest sorrow,
Never murmur, dare not blame;
God, who wounds, alone can heal thee;
Trust his power and praise his name.
Oh! may we say, _each_, every one,
"Not my will, but thine be done."




SHE SLUMBERS STILL.


On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,
Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;
How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,
'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.

Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved
In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;
The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,