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CHRISTIAN RESIGNATION.

A CHRISTIAN should never murmer and repine at the accidents of life. We often desire the accomplishment of a thing good in itself; we endeavor to obtain it; and, when baffled in our attempts, are prone to repine. Let us remember that all such repining is nothing less than murmuring against God. God chooses, in the wisdom of his councils, either not to gratify our wishes, or defer their accomplishment, or to take from us what we deem the richest of our possessions: a Christian, therefore, should not repine at the overruling providence of God. All such uneasiness, all such impatience, all such want of acquiescence to the divine will, is sinful. O, how do we imbitter the cup of life, in thus stirring up its dregs by our agitated feelings! We all seem to want our own will, although we daily repeat and say unto the Lord, 'Thy will be done on earth, as it is done in heaven.'

I will turn their mourning into joy, and will comfort them, and make them rejoice from their sorrow.

JEREMIAH.

OBEDIENCE AND PRAYER.

BISHOP DOANE.

WHENE'ER affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,

Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine;
'Tis but a Marah's fount, ordained
Thy faith in God to prove,

And prayer and resignation shall

Its bitterness remove.

'THY WILL BE DONE.'

TO DESIRE to know the Divine will is the first duty of a being so ignorant as man; to endeavor to obey it is the most indispensable duty of a being at once so corrupt and so dependent. The Holy Scriptures frequently comprise the essence of the Christian temper in some short aphorism, apostrophe, or definition. The essential spirit of the Christian life may be said to be included in this one brief petition of the Christian's prayer, 'THY WILL BE DONE.' Mourner! pray that this may be the most fervent aspiration of your heart.

LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES.

MRS. NORTON.

Low SHE lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;

She may not smile, she will not rise, —

The life hath past away!

Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep;

She is there, of whom our souls were fond,-
Then wherefore do we weep!

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright

She scarce seemed made to die.

Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow,—
Then wherefore do we weep!

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was a gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone,
There is silence still and deep;

Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,-
Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all, -

And her glossy golden hair!

But though that lid may never wake

From its dark and dreamless sleep;

See is gone where young hearts do not break,Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright,

This is a world of woe:

Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,

Because we dwell below?

We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we 'll keep ;
We have only given her back to God, -
Ah! wherefore do we weep?

LET us accustom ourselves betimes to will what God willeth, and to obey him without reluctance. Let us cast all our cares upon God, and rely upon his wise and fatherly providence. Let us look with contempt upon the world, its vain pomps, and perishable riches; and esteem nothing upon the earth, nor aught that man is able to procure for us, in comparison of the blessed hope which we have in heaven, and the precious gift which God hath reserved for us.

THE PLAINT OF LOVE.

WILLIS G. CLARK.

BLOSSOMS of peace, once in my pathway springing,

Where have your brightness and your splendor

gone?

And thou, whose voice to me came sweet as sing

ing,

What region holds thee, in the vast unknown? What star far brighter than the rest contains thee, Beloved, departed— empress of my heart? What bond of full beatitude enchains thee,In realms unveiled by pen, or prophet's art?

Ah! loved and lost! in these autumnal hours,
When fairy colors deck the fading tree,
When the vast woodlands seem a sea of flowers,
O! then my soul, exulting, bounds to thee!
Springs, as to clasp thee yet in this existence,
Yet to behold thee at my lonely side;
But the fond vision melts at once to distance,
And my sad heart gives echo-she has died!

Yes! when the morning of her years was brightest,
That angel-presence into dust went down,-
While yet with rosy dreams her rest was lightest,

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Death for the olive wove the cypress-crown, —

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