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MORS JANUA VITÆ.
“I shall arise again!"-But where ?
Most mighty God! to me is given
IN CELO QUIES.
“THERE will be peace in Heaven!" Oh! how this thought Should arm the soul with patience strong to bear
The petty ills of life; to cast our care
Patience in deepest suffering Light as air
To cheer our darkling path on earth is given
Shall it be said that we have vainly striven?
SONNET OF MICHEL AGNOLO BUONAROTTI,
Written in the near view of Death.
O pensier miei gia de miei danni lieti
(The following translation does not give the exact words of the original, still
less its spirit. It is subjoined to give the meaning to those who do not un. derstand the Italian, and to assist the learner in translating it.]
In fragile bark o'er troubled waters borne,
Now has my life its destin'd passage run,
Or good, or ill, the deeds that they have done.
Well prove I now the burden of that sin,
Sin, still the path by earthly passion trod,
And made of Art its monarch and its God,
What can ye now to comfort and to cure?
Two deaths-one threatened and the other sure.
To soothe the soul that nothing more can calm,
And gently bears us on his sacred arm.
REVIEW OF CHILDREN'S BOOKS,
siderable objewe live in a day on that we
A Tribute of Parental Affection to the Memory of a beloved and only Daughter, containing some Account of the Character and Death of Hannah Jerram. By C. Jerram. G. Wilson, Essex Street. 1823.
We took up this little book under the influence of considerable objections to the great increase of such works in general. We live in a day when truth and fiction have come to be so blended in religion, that we begin to tremble lest it soon should wear the character of fiction altogether--a tale to weep over and shudder at; but no reality, big with eternal consequences. Precose piety and happy deaths have grown so common in our juvenile reading, and are so much calculated to work on the imagination of the young, that we confess ourselves alarmed lest they become as exciting, as inebriating, and as delusive, as the blue lights, and moving curtains, and midnight whispers, that were used to be the never-failing flowers of fiction-lest our young readers should become as anxious, and with much the same feeling, to be the heroine of a pious tale, as once they were to be the prisoner in an enchanted castle. We hope we shall not be misunderstood. Far is it from us to imply that these things are no realities. As far are we from desiring that what passes in the chambers of death should be veiled from the eyes of youth, as something with which they have not to do. On the contrary, we would introduce them on every fitting occasion to the things themselves; they should be early led to witness, if possible, the awful reality of death. But let it be the reality-and if the dying Christian's last struggles are to be written and published, and cried like a ballad through the streets, let us not venture one word of exaggeration to awaken the feelings, and kindle the imagination, in the hope of making a useful impression. And at least let such reading be sparingly and carefully administered. We all know that what moves the feelings is acceptable. There is nothing we naturally enjoy so much as the dying scenes of a tragedy, and the more horrors and the more marvels attend the death, the greater the enjoyment. So when we have seen sensitive children devouring in motionless excitation these tales of happy or unhappy deaths, we own our hearts have misgiven us, lest we are making the awful question on which our eternal bappiness or misery depends—that deep, internal question, which is between the dying sinner and his God, of which angels perhaps wait the decision in suspensive silence—is there no danger lest we are making it the mere winding-up of every ştory, sure to end well, however it begins?
And if it cannot be as our fears have whispered, that by the habitual perusal of these scenes, our children may learn to find them as amusing, and as affecting, and as little alarming to themselves as any other tragick story, is there no danger that we shall teach them to presume on a similar opportunity of demonstrating their own piety, and making their peace with a neglected God?
There is no delusion on earth so false and so fatal as the idea, that the bed of sickness and death is the place for manifesting our faith and settling our eternal interests. Thank God, it is the place where the too little trusted Saviour proves himself faithful to the weakest of his people—where the benighted pilgrim sees the bright openings of eternal day-where the weary and heart-broken lay down their burden—it is most awfully the place where the careless sinner parts from the delusion that persuaded him he was righteous. But they who know most of these scenes, know best how seldom it is that there is any fitness in that hour to attend to concerns so important. The confusion of the severed brain, the distracting influence of pain, the application of remedies, the bustling watchfulness of doctors, friends, nurses, all conspiring to banish reflection, and forbid the retirement of the mind into itself, the danger, sometimes real and some