God and Saviour, and see them
disappointed, and utterly destitute of any thing to make them happy
forever, and all because they would not forego their chase after
unsatisfying pleasure,--there is many a faithful Christian friend, whose
example and advice they disregarded, who could then reply, "Did I not
say unto you, Go not?"

In the name of some unspeakably dear to you, we say, "We are journeying
unto the place of which the Lord said, I will give it you; come thou
with us, and we will do thee good; for the Lord hath spoken good
concerning Israel."

Our friends, who have gone to heaven, ought not to be invested, in our
thoughts, with such melancholy associations as we are prone to connect
with them. To die is gain. Trouble, and sorrow, and the dark river,
interpose between us and heaven; but in the prospect which has opened
before the eye of the redeemed spirit, there is nothing but widening and
brightening glory. We must not seek for consolation at their departure
by bringing them back, in our thoughts, to our dwellings, but by going
forward, in faith, ourselves, to their dwelling. There is much to
encourage and help us in doing so, in the following lines, which may be
read with profit upon each anniversary of a friend's departure to
heaven, until surviving friends read them at the returning anniversaries
of our own entrance into the joy of our Lord:--

"A YEAR IN HEAVEN.

A YEAR UNCALENDARED; for what
Hast thou to do with mortal time?
Its dole of moments entereth not
That circle, mystic and sublime,
Whose unreached centre is the throne
Of Him, before whose awful brow,
Meeting eternities are known
As but an everlasting now.
The thought removes thee far away,--
Too far,--beyond my love and tears;
Ah, let me hold thee, as I may;
And count thy time by earthly years.

A YEAR OF BLESSEDNESS; wherein
Not one dim cloud hath crossed thy soul;
No sigh of grief, no touch of sin,
No frail mortality's control;
Nor once hath disappointment stung,
Nor care, world-weary, made thee pine;
But rapture, such as human tongue
Hath found no language for, is thine.
Made perfect at thy passing, who
Can sum thy added glory now?
As on, and onward, upward, through
The angel ranks that lowly bow,
Ascending still from height to height
Unfaltering, where rapt spirits trod,
Nor pausing 'mid the