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138 What though thy wounded bosom bleed,
 * Pierced by affliction's dart;

Do I not all thy sorrows heed,
 * And bear thee on my heart?

Soon will the lowly grave become
 * Thy quiet resting place;

Thy spirit find a peaceful home
 * In mansions near my face.

There are thy robes and glittering crown,
 * Outshining yonder sun;

Soon shalt thou lay the body down,
 * And put those glories on.

Long has thy golden lyre been strung,
 * Which angels cannot move;

No song to this is ever sung,
 * But bleeding, dying Love.

Having known the writer of this book for a number of years, and knowing the many privations and mortifications she has had to pass through, I the more willingly add my testimony to the truth of her assertions. She is one of that class, who by some are considered not only as little lower than the angels, but far beneath them; but I have long since learned that we are not to look at the color of the hair, the eyes, or the skin, for the man or woman; their life is the criterion we are to judge by. The writer of this book has seemed to be a child of misfortune.

Early in life she was deprived of her parents, and all those endearing associations to which childhood clings. Indeed, she