weight crush thee down;
Sufficient to-day is the evil thereof,
Let the ills of to-morrow alone.

Neither boast of to-morrow, for what is thy life,
But a vapor that floateth away;
Like a _tale_ quickly told, or a _dream_ of the night,
That departs at the breaking of day.

Be not like the man who once said in his heart,
"I have goods that are laid by for years;"
But scarce had he planned how they best might be stored,
When he dies and leaves all to his heirs.

Neither _dread_ then, nor _boast_ of to-morrow, my soul,
But make most of the time that's now given;
Be the ground well prepared, with good seed sown thereon,
And 'twill yield a rich harvest in heaven.

Jan. 24, 1853.

REMINISCENCES OF THE DEPARTED.

His mission soon accomplished,
His race on earth soon run,
He passed to realms of glory,
Above the rising sun.

So beautiful that infant,
When in death's arms he lay;
It seemed like peaceful slumber,
That morn might chase away.

But morning light was powerless,
Those eyelids to unclose;
And sunshine saw and left him,
In undisturbed repose.

The light of those blue orbs
That drank the sunbeams in,
Now yields to night, and darkness
Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful,
The light brown chestnut hair;
Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
His life, when called to yield it
By _Him that_ life who gave.

So soon his voyage ended,
The passage home so short,
Before he knew of evil,
He entered safe the port.

Since thee, my child, I saw,
Long years have passed away;
Thy mother's hair then brown,
Now's intermixed with gray.

Another link's been broken,
By death's relentless hand;
A daughter has been taken,
The eldest of the band.

_Thy_ little lamp of life,
Was put out in a day;
But _hers_ was years expiring,
By slow yet sure decay.

But _one_ short year of life,
Was all allotted thee;
But she, thy eldest sister,
Was _many_ years spared me.

And though long since we parted,
On earth to meet no more;
I'd think of thee as children
"Not _lost_, but gone before."

Feb. 20, 1853.

"LET ME DIE THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS."

By the river Euphrates the prophet abode,
To whom Balak his messengers sent,
Entreating his presence and curses on those
Who on Moab's destruction were bent.

By hundreds of thousands they're marching along,
And by Moses, God's servant, they're led;