word of the
promise, _'In the eventide it shall be light._ Yesterday she said,
'The will of the Lord be done.'--She tells me this morning she enjoys
_peace_. Her memory is much impaired. My mind is much distressed, but
finds its rest in God. It seems, as if by diversity of trial, the Lord
wills to purge my affections. O let Thy will be done. Help me, however
nature rebels, fully to give up my own will. Blessed be God, my soul
enjoys peace. 'I trust in Him, who stands between the Father's wrath
and me.' My dear mother's weakness increases; but she says this
morning, she _dare not doubt_ of going to heaven.--I sat up with my
dear mother. About half-past twelve she was convulsed, and felt
sick; then, she dosed a little; then sick again,--called for
Richard,--wandered,--evidently changed for death, and had a severe
struggle, often saying, 'Do help me, do.' Her sufferings were acute.
Once she said, 'Lord, help me;' and again, 'Hope thou in God, for I
shall yet pr----;' but the words were interrupted by her sufferings,
My anguish of mind is known to Thee. As I stood by the fire the words
were suggested,

'_Thy_ warfare's past, _thy_ mourning's o'er;
Look up, for _thou_ shalt weep no more.'

I was comforted. My dear husband, cousin, and Mary, found great
consolation in prayer just before her departure. Her last words were,
'Pray, pray;' 'Lord, Lord.' Thus, about half-past one on the 23rd of
March, my dear mother 'fell asleep,' aged seventy-two years and three
weeks."

And though in ruin now her body lies,
A peaceful smile upon her face is spread:
The struggle o'er--her spirit upward flies,
To join the spirits of the blessed dead.

"My dear departed mother was interred in St. Lawrence churchyard,
by the side of my beloved father; leaving the impressive
admonition--'prepare to follow.' I feel it--my heart determines--my
will submits--I have set about it. Lord help me to persevere."

LOOK UPWARD.

Oh! how uncertain all below!
Our comforts cause us pain;
Smiling, they sting us as they go,
Ne'er to return again.
Then upward turn thy weeping eye;
Nor, like yon drooping tree,
Bend downward to the earth; on high
See Jesus looks on thee.
Jesus! what balm is in that sound!
It bids our tears away;
Spreads life and happiness around;
Converts the night to day.
To feel Thy dying love, be mine;
To hear Thy charming voice;
The ceaseless whisper, 'I am Thine,'