Little Mary Sleepeth [pp. 206]

LITTLE MARY SLEEPETH.
LITTLE MARY SLEEPETH.
0~~~~~z BaY E. R. O. OHA^NS!.
"I saw thee weep-the big bright tear
Come o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
4 violet dropping dew.
I saw thee smile-the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That filled that eye of thine."
Two years ago I stood a stranger in a little vil lage, pleasantly situated in the beautiful valley of
Cumberland county, Penn. It was the Sabbath.
The church-going bell had chimed merrily away,
and the cheerful yeomanry, in pious haste, bent their
footsteps toward the house of God. The morning
was lovely. The sun had risen with splendor in
the heavens, and seemed rejoicing like a strong man
to run his race; his soft beams had lingered awhile
on the mountain-top, and now threw a radiance
rarely equaled over the smiling valley. All nature
seemed vocal in praises to God on this beautiful
morning insummer: the lark had borne her song
toward the gate of heaven; the rose and the flower
had opened their soft petals, and were emitting
their sweet perfumes on the worshipers, as they
moved thoughtfully along to the house of prayer.
I saw an aged servant of the Most High ascend the
pulpit of the Methodist Episcopal Church of that
village; and as my eye rested upon that attentive
audience, I felt that it was good to be there. After
preaching the sacrament was administered. This,
to me, is always a solemn scene; but on this occasion it was rendered more so by the relation I sustained to those with whom I kneeled around that
altar. I was a stranger there! Yetl felt at home
in my heavenly Father's house. My health was
quite feeble by close confinement; I knew well
how to sympathize with those from whose cheek
the rose had departed.
I saw a little girl of fourteen summers-and all
her summers were numbered-enter that church.
She had requested her mother, on that bright Sabbath morning, to kneel down by her side, and partake of the Lord's supper. I saw her feeble step,
and marked her countenance, as she was led by
that mother down the aisle, and kneeled, with a tearful eye, to participate, for the last time on earth,
with her friends, in commemorating the death
and passion of her Lord. Methought, as I looked
upon that touching scene, I almost heard her whisper to them the language of the Savior, "Verily, I
say unto you, I will drink no more of the fruit of
the vine, until that day that I drink it new in the
kingdom of God."
She soon returned to her chamber. The next
day I was invited to dine with her father's family.
After dinner I had an interview with little Mary.
I may live to be old, I may forget much "among
the dream of things that were," but never will I
forget the hour I spent in the company of that
sweet little girl. Her father was a physician of
some eminence; he was a kind and affectionate
parent; he doted on his only child; but her health
had fled; he saw her rapidly fading away before
his eyes; he had tried to give her up, but he could
not yet think of parting with the object of his affec tion-she was so amiable, so pious, so pure. Some
two years before she had made her peace with God,
and was not afraid to die. She felt that death
would be to her but the beginning of eternal life.
She knew that she could not live long, and spoke
of death composedly. She felt that the last sum mer breeze fanned her cheek, and would soon
sweep over her tomb. During our conversation I
noticed a bright tear fill her eye; it did not speak
of sorrow, but like a pearly dew drop brightened
more sweetly ere it fell. Hers was an angelic
smile. Never before had I seen so much sweetness,
so much innocence, so much affection, expressed in
a smile. And when I remarked that in all proba bility I should see her no more on earth, but antici pated meeting her again above, that, perhaps, twelve
months hence I should return, and if I found her
not, I would go to her grave, and then remember
that hour sanctified to her memory, she smiled
through her tears, and said, "Long ere you come
back I shall be in heaven." My heart was touched;
and when I bade her farewell, I felt it would be to
meet her no more on earth. Time passed on. I
returned to my native state. She waited in that
village, "till her change should come;" yet she lin gered there but a little while...
A few months ago I again stood in that chamber;
I looked around the room, but little Mary was not
there! I did not inquire for her. I was shown
her grave. Death had robbed that sweet girl of
her youthful beauties, and borne her away to the
silent tomb. And while her fond parents wept
tears of sorrow at her departure, she pointed them
above where tears are never shed, and there she
bade them meet her. Many of her young friends
visited her during her illness-to all of whom she
dropped a memento of her love, and told them of
her home above. It was only left for me to visit
her grave; and when I stood there alone, and saw
the green grass growing over her tomb, I remembered
that afternoon/we had met on earth and parted; I
remembered the smile of friendship, the tear of
sympathy, the voice of tenderness; but above all
I remembered the sweet disposition of heart that
enabled her, while yet in the bloom of youth, and
surrounded by kind and affectionate friends, to
lean her head upon Jesus' breast, and softly whisper to weeping ones, "Adieu! adieu! I am almost
home." Reader, little Mary sleepeth; she doeth
well. May our last hour be as calm-our last sleep
as peaceful I
A MAN's virtue should not be measured by his
occasional exertions, but by his ordinary doings.
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