We are there unseen by the home-fire's blaze,

As our tales ye repeat again:

When ye sing the song of other days

We are there, and we bless ye then.

And we hover o'er when the hour of prayer
Comes on, at the close of even—

Midst the hallowed family band we're there,
And we bear those prayers to Heaven.

EDWARD YOUNG, Esq.

Recognition in Heaven.

MUST confess, as the experience of my own soul, that the expectation of loving my friends in heaven principally kindles my love to them while on earth. If I thought I should never know them, and, consequently, never love them after this life is ended, I should number them with temporal things, and love them as such; but now I delightfully converse with my pious friends, in a firm persuasion that I shall converse with them forever; and I take comfort in those that are dead or absent, believing that I shall shortly meet them in heaven and love them with a heavenly love.

BAXTER.

A Voice from Heaven.

SHINE in the light of God,
His image stamps my brow,
Through the shadows of death my feet have
trod,

I reign in glory now;

No breaking heart is here,

No keen and thrilling pain,

No wasted cheek where the frequent tear

Hath rolled and left its stain.

I have found the joys of heaven,
I am one of the angel band,

To my head a crown of gold is given,
And a harp is in my hand;

I have learn'd the song they sing,
Whom Jesus hath set free,

And the glorious walls of heaven still ring,
With my new-born melody.

No sins, no griefs, no pains,

Safe in my happy home,

My fears all fled, my foes all slain,
My hour of triumph come;
Oh, friends of my mortal years,

The trusted and the true!

Ye are walking still through the vale of tears,

But I wait to welcome you.

Do I forget? Ah, no!

For memory's golden chain

Shall bind my heart to the hearts below,

Till they meet and touch again;

Each link is strong and bright,

And love's eclectic flame

Flows freely down like a river of light,
To the world from which I came.

Do you mourn when another star

Shines out from the glittering sky?

Do you weep, when the raging voice of war, Or the storms of conflict die?

Then why should your tears run down,

And your hearts be sorely riven,
For another gem in the Saviour's crown,
And another soul in Heaven!

N old negro in the West Indies, residing at a considerable distance from the missionary, but exceedingly desirous of learning to read the Bible, came to him regularly for a lesson. He made but little progress, and his teacher, almost disheartened, intimated his fears that his labors would be lost, and asked him, "Had you not better give it over?" "No massa," said he, with great energy, "Me never give it over till me die ;" and, pointing with his finger to John, third chapter, and sixteenth verse: "God so loved the world," etc., added, with touching emphasis: "It is worth all de labor to be able to read dat one single verse."