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 her chosen protector to a wild land, and uninhabited, willingly trusting to him, her "all of earth, perchance, her all of heaven." The mother grudges not the pang, the faded bloom, the weary night-watchings with which she rears her infant. Must an earthly love ever transcend that which is divine? Will christian parents always yield with reluctance their children to that Beneficent Being, whom "not having seen, they love?"

"How have you attained such sweet resignation?" said a pastor to a young mother, who had newly buried her first-born. She replied, "I used to think of my boy continually, whether sleeping or waking. To me, he seemed more beautiful than other children. I was disappointed, if visitors omitted to praise his eyes, or his curls, or the robes that I wrought for him with my needle. At first, I believed it the natural current of a mother's love. Then I feared it was pride, and sought to humble myself before Him who resisteth the proud.

One night, in dreams, I thought an angel stood beside me, and said "where is the little bud that thou nursest in thy bosom? I am sent to take it. Where is thy little harp? Give it to me. It is like those which breathe the praise of God in heaven." I awoke in tears. My beautiful boy drooped like a bud which the worm pierces. His last wailing, was like the sad musick from