VICTORY OVER DEATH.

As the Redeemer is glorified in his flesh, so shall the believer be raised up to glory at the last day. What then to him whose faith can grasp things hoped for and unseen, are all the passing ignominies, and pangs, and insults, which now afflict the follower of the Man of sorrows, the Lord of life and glory? Every revolution of the earth rolls on to that fulness of adoption, "when this mortal shall put on immortality, and this corruption shall put on incorruption, and shall be brought to pass this saying, Death is swallowed up in victory;" when these eyes, now so dim and soon to be closed in dust, shall behold the face of God in righteousness; when these hands, now so weak and stained with sin, shall bear aloft the triumphant palm, and strike the golden harp that seraphs love to listen to; and these voices, now so harsh and tuneless, shall swell in harmony ineffable to the song of Moses and the Lamb, responsive to the Trisagion, the thrice holy of the angels. Yes, beloved Master, we see thee, "who wast made a little lower than the angels for the suffering of death, crowned with glory and honor;" and thou hast promised that we shall share thy glory and thy crown!

"Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ!" "Us!" And who are included in that

sublime and multitudinous plural? "Not to me only," says the Apostle, "but to all them that love his appearing i Ye shall share it, ancient believers, who, from Adam to Christ, worshipped by figure, and under the shadow! Ye shall share it, ye prophets, who wondered at the mysterious promises of glory following suffering! Ye shall share it, ye mighty apostles, though ye doubted when ye heard of the broken tomb! Ye, martyrs, whose howling enemies execrated you, as they slew you by sword, and cross, and famine, and rack, and the wild beast, and flame! And ye, God's humble poor, whom men despised, but of whom the world was not worthy, God's angels are watching, as they watched the sepulchre in the garden, over your obscure graves, keeping your sacred dust till the morning break, when it shall be crowned with princely splendor! Yes, thou weak one, who yet hast strength to embrace thy Master's cross! Thou sorrowing one, whose tears fall like rain, but not without hope, over the grave of thy beloved! Thou tempted one, who, through much tribulation, art struggling on to the kingdom of God! Ye all shall be there, and ten thousand times ten thousand more! Hark! the trumpet! The earth groans and rocks herself as if in travail! They rise, the sheeted dead; but how lustrously white are their garments! How dazzling their beautiful holiness! What a mighty host! They fill the air; they acclaim hallelujahs; the heavens bend with

shouts of harmony; the Lord comes down, and his angels are about him; and he owns his chosen, and they rise to meet him, and they mingle with cherubim and seraphim, and the shoutings are like thunders from the throne,-thunderings of joy :"O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ!"

CLING TO THY MOTHER.

Cling to thy mother; for she was the first

To know thy being, and to feel thy life;

The hope of thee through many a pang she nurst;
And when, 'midst anguish like the parting strife,
Her babe was in her arms, the agony

Was all forgot, for bliss of loving thee.

Be gentle to thy mother; long she bore
Thine infant fretfulness and silly youth;

Nor rudely scorn the faithful voice that o'er

Thy cradle pray'd, and taught thy lispings truth.
Yes, she is old; yet on thine adult brow

She looks, and claims thee as her child e'en now.
Uphold thy mother; close to her warm heart

She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy rest ;-
Then taught thy tottering limbs their untried art,
Exulting in the fledgling from her nest:
And, now her steps are feeble, be her stay,
Whose strength was thine in thy most feeble day.
Cherish thy mother; brief perchance the time

May be that she will claim the care she gave;
Past are her hopes of youth, her harvest prime
Of joy on earth; her friends are in the grave:
But for her children, she could lay her head
Gladly to rest among her precious dead.

Be tender with thy mother; words unkind,
Or light neglect from thee, will give a pang
To that fond bosom, where thou art enshrined
In love unutterable, more than fang

Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong trust,
As thou wouldst hope for peace when she is dust.

O mother mine! God grant I ne'er forget,
Whatever be my grief, or what my joy,
The unmeasured, unextinguishable debt
I owe thy love; but make my sweet employ
Ever through thy remaining days to be
To thee as faithful, as thou wert to me.

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!"-Lear.

LIVE TO DO GOOD.

Live to do good; but not with thought to win
From man return of any kindness done;
Remember Him who died on cross for sin,

The merciful, the meek, rejected One;
When He was slain for crime of doing good,
Canst thou expect return of gratitude?

Do good to all; but while thou servest best,

And at thy greatest cost, nerve thee to bear,
When thine own heart with anguish is opprest,

The cruel taunt, the cold averted air,

From lips which thou hast taught in hope to pray,
And eyes whose sorrows thou hast wiped away.

Still do thou good; but for His holy sake

Who died for thine; fixing thy purpose ever
High as His throne no wrath of man can shake;
So shall He own thy generous endeavor,
And take thee to His conqueror's glory up,
When thou hast shared the Saviour's bitter cup.
Do naught but good; for such the noble strife
Of virtue is, 'gainst wrong to venture love,
And for thy foe devote a brother's life,

Content to wait the recompense above;
Brave for the truth, to fiercest insult meek,
In mercy strong, in vengeance only weak.

EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED.

Within her downy cradle, there lay a little child,
And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her smiled;
When a strife arose among them, a loving, holy strife,
Which should shed the richest blessing over the new-born life.
One breathed upon her features, and the babe in beauty grew,
With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an eye of azure hue;
Till every one who saw her was thankful for the sight
Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh delight.

Another gave her accents and a voice as musical

As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling streamlet's fall;
Till all who heard her laughing, or her words of childish grace,
Loved as much to listen to her, as to look upon her face.

Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle mind,
And within the lovely casket the precious gem enshrined;
Till all who knew her wonder'd that God should be so good
As to bless with such a spirit a world so cold and rude.

Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and truth,
The budding of her childhood just opening into youth;
And to our hearts yet dearer, every moment than before,

She became, though we thought fondly heart could not love her more.

Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter than the rest,
As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his breast:—
"Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal race,
But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her face:
"Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her tongue,
And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be wrung,
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know a sense of sin.
"Lull'd in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away,
Where there is no sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor decay;
And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts shall be-
Lo! I crown her happy spirit with immortality!"

Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle breath;
For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best, was DEATH!

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

THIS accomplished writer, whose maiden name was Prince, was born in a village near Portland, Maine, and traces her descent, both on her father's and mother's side, to the early Puritans. She early showed uncommon powers of mind, and before she could write she would compose little stories, and print them in her rude way. At an early age she was married to Mr. Seba Smith, editor of the "Portland Advertiser," who in 1839 removed to New York.' Her first published book was entitled Riches without Wings, written for the young, but interesting to readers of all ages. In 1842, she published a novel, The Western Captive, founded on traditions of Indian life. In 1844 appeared The Sinless Child, and other Poems, which was very favorably received, and passed through several editions. She then turned her attention to tragedy, and published The Roman Tribute, founded on a period in the history of Constantinople when Theodosius saved it from being sacked by paying its price to Attila, the Hun; and Jacob Leisler, founded upon a dramatic incident in the colonial history of New York in 1680. In 1848 appeared a fanciful prose tale, The Salamander, a Legend for Christmas; and in 1851, Woman and Her Needs, a volume on the "Woman's Rights" question, of which Mrs. Smith has been a prominent advocate. Her publication entitled Bertha and Lily, or the Parsonage of Beech Glen, a Romance, is a story of American country-life, which was followed by The Newsboy, being a picture of the life of a too much neglected class. This work was the first public appeal in their behalf, and led to efficient measures for their improvement and relief, and so popular was it that it passed through a dozen editions the first year. Mrs. Smith now resides in New York, still actively employing her useful pen in magazines and other periodicals.

See page 361.

THE DROWNED MARINER.

A mariner sat in the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;

Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale,
As it flounder'd in the sea;

The scud was flying athwart the sky,

The gathering winds went whistling by,

And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell-

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurb'd steed along;

A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water ploughs,
But the ship is fleet and strong;

The topsails are reef'd, and the sails are furl'd,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holds him by the shroud;

And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,

And the surging heareth loud.

Was that a face, looking up at him,

With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread,
A face he knew too well;

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the waves was spread-
Was there a tale to tell?

The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need―
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide.

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past;
A voice calls loud for thee: