sickness come not, and death
is swallowed up in victory? Where the saints of the most high God are
clothed upon with the righteousness of Christ, and the "spirits of the
just made perfect" join with angels and arch-angels, in singing sweet
songs of redeeming love.

But angels cannot appreciate the full rapture of the redeemed soul.
We cannot comprehend here, fully, but the mind is overwhelmed when
we contemplate the revelations of the Gospel, "Come then expressive
silence, muse His praise."

On the Death of Willie White, Who Was Drowned Sept. 21, 1856.

How suddenly this opening flow'r
Was borne from earth away;
In sweeter fragrance to unfold
In realms of endless day.

The angel gaz'd with pitying eye
O'er all life's devious way;
Then pluming bright his golden wings,
Bore his freed soul away.

Now when you gather round your hearth,
There's Willie's vacant chair;
And Willie's voice of childish mirth,
Is missing every where.

And oft you gaze upon his toys,
'Till weeping eyes grow dim;
You know he cannot come to you,
But you must go to him.

The Human Heart

The human heart's a mystery,
That few can understand;
And all its trembling chords should be
Swept with a gentle hand.

For if we rudely strike the strings
Whence melody should flow,
A harsh, unnatural discord rings,
Of bitterness and woe.

We mingle with the joyous crowd,
Where all is bright and gay,
With music light, and laughter loud,
They pass the hours away.

How oft, amid such scenes, the heart
Is sad, we know not why;
And though a smile the lips may part,
A tear steals to the eye.

And then we quickly turn away
To hide the starting tear,
While the music of their laughter falls
Dirge-like upon the ear.

And we wonder why, when all around
Is song and revelry,
Their joyous mirthfulness should sound,
To us, so mournfully.

And yet, sometimes the simplest thing,
Such happiness affords,
It seems as though an angel's wing
Had swept the trembling chords.

The gushing music of the rill,
The whisp'ring of the breeze,
And the low and gentle rustling
Of the leaves upon the trees.

The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds,
As mournfully they blend,
Speak to the heart as if in words,
Of a departed friend.

And as we listen, breathlessly,
To the low, mysterious