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; Was all forgot, for bliss of loving thee. Be gentle to thy mother; long she bore Nor rudely scorn the faithful voice that o'er Thy cradle pray'd, and taught thy lispings truth. She looks, and claims thee as her child e'en now. She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy rest ;- May be that she will claim the care she gave; Be tender with thy mother; words unkind, Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong trust, O mother mine! God grant I ne'er forget, "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is LIVE TO DO GOOD. Live to do good; but not with thought to win The merciful, the meek, rejected One; Do good to all; but while thou servest best, And at thy greatest cost, nerve thee to bear, The cruel taunt, the cold averted air, From lips which thou hast taught in hope to pray, Still do thou good; but for His holy sake Who died for thine; fixing thy purpose ever Content to wait the recompense above; EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED. Within her downy cradle, there lay a little child, Another gave her accents and a voice as musical As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling streamlet's fall; Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle mind, Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and truth, She became, though we thought fondly heart could not love her more. Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter than the rest, Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle breath; 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, Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale, The scud was flying athwart the sky, The gathering winds went whistling by, And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray, The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast, For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, The topsails are reef'd, and the sails are furl'd, Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, And as she careens to the crowding breeze, And the surging heareth loud. Was that a face, looking up at him, With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim? The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread, And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed, Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past; |