it.  May we so improve it that he will stay his hand and say, ‘It is enough.’” A while after this she writes:  “Since worship I have stolen away to a much loved spot, where I love to sit and pay the tribute of affection to my lost, darling child.  It is a little enclosure of mango-trees, in the centre of which is erected a small bamboo house, on a rising spot of ground, which looks down on the new-made grave of our infant boy.  Here I now sit, and though all nature around wears a most delightful, and romantic appearance, yet my heart is sad, and my tears frequently stop my pen.  You, my dear Mrs. L. who are a mother, may imagine my sensations, but if you have never lost a first born, an only son, you can never know my pain.  Had you even buried your little boy, you are in a Christian country, surrounded by friends and relatives, who could soothe your anguish and direct your attention to other objects.  But behold us, solitary and alone, with this one source of recreation!  Yet this is denied us, this must be removed, to show us that we need no other source of enjoyment but God himself.

“Do not think though I write thus, that I repine at the dealings of Providence.  No! though he slay me yet will I trust in him!...  Though I say with the Prophet, Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, yet I would also say, It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed because his compassions fail not.  God is the same when he afflicts, as when he is merciful, just as worthy of our entire trust and confidence now, as when he entrusted us with the precious little gift.  There is a bright side even to this heavy affliction.”

The following tender and beautiful effusion was written by the Rev. J. Lawson of the Serampore Mission and presented to Mrs. Judson on this occasion.  As it has not been published in former notices of Mrs. J. we take pleasure in inserting it here.

    “Hush’d be the murmuring thought!  Thy will be done
    O Arbiter of life and death.  I bow
    To thy command—­I yield the precious gift
    So late bestowed; and to the silent grave
    Move sorrowing, yet submissive.  O sweet babe! 
    I lay thee down to rest—­the cold, cold earth
    A pillow for thy little head.  Sleep on,
    Serene in death.  No care shall trouble thee. 
    All undisturbed thou slumberest; far more still
    Than when I lulled thee in my lap, and sooth’d
    Thy little sorrows till they ceased.... 
    Then felt thy mother peace; her heart was light
    As the sweet sigh that ’scaped thy placid lips,
    And joyous as the dimpled smile that played
    Across thy countenance.—­O I must weep
    To think of thee, dear infant, on my knees
    Untroubled sleeping.  Bending o’er thy form,
    I watch’d with eager hope to catch the laugh
    First waking from thy sparkling eye, a beam
    Lovely to me as the blue light of heaven. 
    Dimm’d in death’s agony, it beams no more!