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of the first of Corinthians. I had not read long before she said, “A little louder.” I raised my voice, she soon said, “I don't hear you—I'm growing blind—I'm dying-Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
She gave a deep sigh-another,--and her spirit was, I trust, before the throne.
I retained my posture a moment, and as I laid her inanimate form back upon the pillow, and closed her eyes, I said aloud,
“ There is joy! there is joy ! in the bright realms of day,
They have opened the gates of the sky;
And waits for admission on high.
The song of redemption and love,
To welcome their sister above."
There is joy! there is joy! at the foot of the throne,
See the spirit all glorified bend,
On the face of her father and friend.
All her sins, all her follies forgiven;
And this is the portion of heaven.”
THE FADED FLOWERS.
They are fading, all fading ! those beautiful flowers, That I gathered this morning from Flora's gay
bowers, One after another they droop on the stem, But I mourn not, I grieve not, I weep not for
But they bring to my memory, friends that were
near, Companions of childhood, beloved and dear, Who drooped like these flowers, and faded and
died, As one after another, was torn from my side.
They are fading, all fading ! the bright things of
time, Like flowers and companions, cut off in their
prime; But one thing more lasting, remains undecayed, 'Tis the joy of religion which never shall fade.
Then since all these bright things, refusing to stay,
THE COTTAGE DOOR.
What a different thing is the cottage-door from the door of a house in the city! And never is the difference seen to be greater than when we call out the children from both, and compare the scene. In the city we shall find the white and polished door, with its silver-plated handles at the lock and bell, opening at the top of a flight of marble steps ; all as clean and bright as if no foot had trodden upon them, or hands touched them. The door is kept shut too, and fastened; so that if one wishes to go in, the bell must be pulled, to bring a servant to open and close it.
But the cottage door is quite a different thing. No paint hides the rough wood of which it is made. No careful work has joined the boards together, so as to make it appear like one solid piece. It stands open in summer all the day : and in winter, you have only to lift a latch and walk in ; taking but one step from the ground into a warm room.
Let us call the children out this fine day. Per