HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL. 131

Months passed that bud of promise
Was unfolding every hour;

I thought that earth had never smiled
Upon a fairer flower.

So beautiful it well might grace

The bowers where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne "Who doeth all things well. "

Years fled that little sister then
Was dear as life to me,

And woke, in my unconscious heart,
A wild idolatry :

I worshipped at an earthly shrine,
Lured by some magic spell,
Forgetful of the praise of Him
"Who doeth all things well."

She was the lovely star, whose light
Around my pathway shone,
Amid this darksome vale of tears,

Through which I journey on,
Its radiance had obscured the light,
Which round His throne doth dwell,
And I wandered far away from Him

"Who doeth all things well."

That star went down in beauty-
Yet it shineth sweetly now,

In the bright and dazzling coronet,
That decks the Savior's brow.
She bowed to the Destroyer,

Whose shafts none may repel,

But we know, for God hath told us, "He doeth all things well."

I remember well my sorrow,
As I stood beside her bed,
And my deep and heartfelt anguish,
When they told me she was dead;
And oh! that cup of bitterness—

Let not my heart rebel,

God gave- -He took-He will restore"He doeth all things well."

THE LITTLE GRAVES.

BY SEBA SMITH.

'Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry, And rustled on the ground,

And chilly winds went whistling by

With low and pensive sound,

As through the grave yard's lone retreat,

By meditation led,

I walked with slow and cautious feet

Above the sleeping dead.

Three little graves, ranged side by side,

My close attention drew;

O'er two the tall grass bending sighed, And one seemed fresh and new.

As lingering there I mused awhile
On death's long, dreamless sleep,
And morning life's deceitful smile,

A mourner came to weep.

Her form was bowed, but not with years,

Her words were faint and few,

And on those little graves her tears
Distilled like evening dew.

A prattling boy, some four years old,
Her trembling hand embraced,

And from my heart the tale he told
Will never be effaced.

Mamma, now you must love me more,

For little sister's dead;

' And t'other sister died before,

Mamma, what made sweet sister die? 'She loved me when we played: You told me, if I would not cry,

'You'd show me where she's laid.'

'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, Deep buried in the ground;

'No light comes to her little eyes,

' And she can hear no sound.'

Mamma, why can't we take her up, 'And put her in my bed?

'I'll feed her from my little cup, 'And then she wont be dead.

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For sister 'll be afraid to lie 'In this dark grave to-night, ' And she'll be very cold, and 'Because there is no light.'

cry,

'No, sister is not cold, my child,

'For God, who saw her die,

'As He looked down from Heaven and smiled,

'Called her above the sky.

And then her spirit quickly fled

To God by whom 'twas given; Her body in the ground is dead, 'But sister lives in Heaven.'