to duty's claim,
The faith that never fear'd.

Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_,
But drink our cup of woe.

So, in her shrouded beauty cold,
Yield to the earth its own,
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,
Of that which may not turn to dust,
But dwells beside the Throne.

MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,

Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

This was her birth-day here,
When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
In these terrestrial bowers.

She hath a birth-day now
No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
Nor chill of wintry snows.

She hath no pain or fear,
But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.

They sorrow, who were called
From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
Around their inmost heart.

Tears are upon the cheeks
Of little ones this day,
God of the motherless,--whose eye
Notes even the ravens when they cry
Wipe Thou their tears away:

Oh, comfort all who grieve
Beside the sacred urn,--
For brief our space to wail or sigh,
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,
And rest with those we mourn.

THE BROTHERS,

Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and
Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged
30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL.

_Both gone._ Both smitten in their manly prime,
Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,
And treasured memories of their boyhood's time
Allay the anguish of affection's tear.

One hath his rest amid the sacred shade
Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,
And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid
To slumber till the sea restores her dead.

The childless parents weep their broken trust,
Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,
And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,
While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.

Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,
No dark misrule this mortal life attends,
A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought
Commingles with the discipline He sends.

Not for Hi