es on the gentle brow,
So cold and pallid now.
No more, no more! repining heart, be still,
And trust in Him who doeth all things well.

Oh, happy little one!
How soon her race was run--
Her pain and suffering o'er,
Herself from sin secure.
Not hers to wander through the waste of years,
Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;
Nor care, nor strife,
Dimmed her brief day of life.
All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove
To guard from every ill my meek white dove.

Love, in its essence,
Pervaded her sweet presence.
How winning were her ways;
Her little child-like grace,
And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,
Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,
As if an angel, unaware,
Had strayed from Heaven, here;
And, saddened at the dark and downward road,
Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.

In her new spiritual birth,
No garments soiled with earth
Cling round the little form, that happy strays,
Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,
Where sister spirits meet her,
And angels joyful greet her.
Arrayed in robes of white,
She walks the paths of light;
Adorning the bright city of our God,
The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!

THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH.

TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the
pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period
had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred
by memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the
lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered by
disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early
days.

I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's
family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had
not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another
place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of
affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The
memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an
earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to
turn my face towards my early home.

It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of
the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I
stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the
old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger
b