Even now, sweet girl, young as thou art,
  Sorrow hath touched thy loving heart,
  And clouds have dimmed thy sky, so fair,
  And left a shadow resting there.

  Thou’st lost a mother, kind and dear,
  No more her sweet voice greets thine ear—­
  In winning tones, that could impart
  Gladness and joy to thy young heart.

  No more her gentle hand is laid
  In loving kindness on thy head;—­
  No more her soft eyes rest on thee,
  Fill’d with a tender sympathy.

  Oft will the world seem cold the while,
  Without her sweet, approving smile;
  Oft will thy heart be sad and weary,
  With no fond mother’s voice to cheer thee.

  Thy loved and honored father, too,—­
  Thy faithful guardian, kind and true,
  Whose stronger arm could shield thy form,
  And guard it from the impending storm;—­

  Who loved to watch thine infant glee,
  And shared thy childish sports with thee,—­
  He, too, from earthly scenes has fled,
  And joined the numbers of the dead.

  Brothers and sisters, a happy band,
  Await thee in the spirit land;
  Bright amaranthine crowns they wear;
  They long to greet their Ella there.

  Prepare thee for that better land,—­
  Prepare to stand at God’s right hand;
  Soon may the fatal summons come,
  To call thy waiting spirit home.

  Oh, then slight not the Saviour’s call,—­
  Into the arms of Jesus fall;
  Sweetly resign to him thy soul,
  Yield all thy powers to his control.

Happiness.

  Say, what is Happiness?—­a gem
  That glitters in the diadem
    That decks the monarch’s brow? 
  Or does this gem, of form divine,
  Gild fortune’s gay and jewell’d shrine,
    Where heartless flatterers bow?

  Or dwells it in the sparkling eye,—­
  Or hides it ’neath the witchery
    Of beauty’s loveliness? 
  Or comes it with refreshing power,
  Like dewdrops to the fainting flower,
    The miser’s heart to bless?

  No, seek it not in Monarchs’ hall,
  Nor yet beneath the glittering pall,
    That hides Ambition’s fane;
  Nor yet with Beauty does it dwell: 
  It is not charm’d by magic spell,
    Nor bound by golden chain,

  But they whose hearts with love are fill’d,
  “Whose words like heav’nly dew distill’d,”
    Are ever just and kind;
  Who seek God’s favor to obtain,
  Rather than praise of man to gain,
    This gem will surely find.

A Picture of Human Life.

It was morning.  Rosy fingered Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of the east, and unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the young king of day.  The glad earth, bathed with the dews of night, and redolent with flowers, lay blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant beams, and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most beautiful garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall, the sigh of the breeze, the carol of the birds, and the hum of busy life—­all fell upon the ear, making enchanting melody—­music that touched the soul.