learned to lisp "Our Father" there.

There I first caught the notes of praise,
Flowing from a mother's tongue.
Which through eternity shall raise
A holy, high, angelic song.

And then your thoughts are all of me,
So softly nestling by your side;
I wait to hear those trembling tones,
In which you sang the day I died.

Your patient watch beside my couch,
You fain my ev'ry woe beguil'd;
For anxiously, and tenderly,
You ever watch'd your dying child.

But all your efforts were in vain,--
Friends or physicians could not save;
For ghastly death his mandate gave,
To lay me in the silent grave.

And scarce had rosy finger'd morn
Unrolled her earliest tints of gray,
To usher in the peaceful dawn
Of that delightful Sabbath day,--

When, silently, the angel came,
With upraised eye, and beck'ning hand,
And gently folding in his arms,
Bore me to the spirit land.

Where sweet transporting voices stole
On my enraptur'd eye and ear,
That spoke the Sabbath of the soul.
Ceaseless as the eternal year.

Here angel and arch-angel bow
In worship round the great white throne;
And ceaseless hallelujahs rise,
To the Almighty, Three and One.

Each has a mission to perform,
As swift through ambient air they fly;
'Tis mine to minister to thee,
And gently woo thee to the sky.

Mother, there are jewels bright
Graven on your deathless soul,
And brighter shall their radiance glow,
While everlasting ages roll.

Mother, they are pure thoughts of heaven,
Murmur'd oft upon your ear,
Which God to me had kindly given,
Your solitary way to cheer.

Mother, these are memories sweet,
Deeply treasur'd in your heart,
Which time, with his restless change,
May never dare to bid depart.

Sometimes across your lap I lie,
And breathe that evening prayer again,
And looking in your tearful eye,
Again repeat that sweet amen.

Then mother, leave your child of earth
To moulder back to kindred dust,
And trace my new and heav'nly birth,
A ransom'd spirit with the just.

And weep not o'er the casket laid
Beneath this little heaped up mound.
The deathless jewel cannot fade,--
A diamond in a Saviour's crown.

An Evening in Our Village.

Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy's flowers
to feast a morbid imagination, when there