prayer was answered; and when the family spoke together of his departure, they were calm.

Henry was to take the place of the lost Missionary, and to be supported by the ladies of his own native village. This was to him and to his mother a source of unspeakable consolation. He was also to take the place of a lost brother; and she who had attended that brother with such magnanimous affection, might now go in his stead. He visited the home of her parents. In the helplessness of old age they were still cheered by a daughter's kind attentions, and by the light of her smile-and could she be torn from them? When she thought of her father and mother her heart faltered, but when they grievingly consented, she did not refuse.

A few months had elapsed, and Henry and his bride were now ready to depart. The ship which was to bear them to India spread its sails, and disappeared in the horizon. The father looked up with a tearful eye to heaven; and the mother-if she then felt more than the pen can describe, she was also stayed on God and in her grief she gloried that her son was

Yale College, (Ct.)

THE DYING BOY.

BY MRS. LUCINDA LARNED.

THE following lines were written after reading an account of the death of a young mother and three children, from the inhuman neglect of the husband and father.-The wife was taken suddenly ill, and left alone with her little ones, while her husband went to procure a physician, and other needful assistance, the nearest house being over two miles distant; but he, forgetful of every thing save his own depraved appetite, became intoxicated before accomplishing his errand, remained so for a week, and on his return home found them all dead. It is supposed that the mother died soon after the birth of her child, and that the boy struggled longest-that in trying to soothe his expiring sister, he sunk down from weakness beside her, and could not at last release himself from her grasp.

OH! mother dear, my lips are dry,
And Bessy's hands are cold ;—
Mother, dear mother! help me nigh
Your bosom-surely you can hold
Your little boy. I will not cry,

Nor ask again for drink or bread,
If you will only let me lie

On your breast, and hold my head.

Oh, mother! call your little boy
Το

your bedside-he'll try to crawl;
You said I was your only joy,

Your darling Henry, and your all;
And then, you looked and screamed out so—
"Boy! to your cruel father go.

Why do you weep and wail to me?
Fly! fly! I've nothing here for thee!"

Don't stare so on me, mother, dear,
I'm still—though Bessy will not stir;
And she's too cold to lie so near-

O, why don't father come to her?
Poor Bessy cried herself to sleep;
I wish I could-but when I try,
My lids won't shut-and always keep
Wide open on your staring eye!

Mother! how can you lie so still

With the dead baby in your arms?

Who did the little dear one kill?

You said 'twas now, safe from all harms:Can't I be dead too, mother, say?

I'm sure 'tis very lonesome hereIs heaven a very great long way? And is our Father waiting there?

I'm tired now, and cannot go,

And the bright sun does blind me so;-
O, shut your eyes, dear mother, do!
And let me love to gaze on you.

How can you see us lying thus,

On this iced floor-our feet so cold?

Once you would fondly run to us,

And round us both the blankets fold.

I'm falling-oh! the room turns round-
I cannot see you now ;-but hark!

19

I hear a soft, and pleasant sound;
Perhaps it is the little lark.

I love such sounds as these to hear,
And it is dark no longer now.
Dear little girls with wings, are near,
And they are smiling on me too.

Oh, 'tis their songs so sweet, and clear-
I think I hear them softly say,
Dear children, stay no longer here;-

Come, come with us, we'll lead the wayIt must be heaven where they dwell:

*

I come! I come!-Mother, farewell!

Providence, (R. I.)