In the name of some unspeakably dear to you, we say, "We are journeying unto the place of which the Lord said, I will give it you; come thou with us, and we will do thee good; for the Lord hath spoken good concerning Israel." Our friends, who have gone to heaven, ought not to be invested, in our thoughts, with such melancholy associations as we are prone to connect with them. To die is gain. Trouble, and sorrow, and the dark river, interpose between us and heaven; but in the prospect which has opened before the eye of the redeemed spirit, there is nothing but widening and brightening glory. We must not seek for consolation at their departure by bringing them back, in our thoughts, to our dwellings, but by going forward, in faith, ourselves, to their dwelling. There is much to encourage and help us in doing so, in the following lines, which may be read with profit upon each anniversary of a friend's departure to heaven, until surviving friends read them at the returning anniversaries of our own entrance into the joy of our Lord:-- "A YEAR IN HEAVEN. A YEAR UNCALENDARED; for what Hast thou to do with mortal time? Its dole of moments entereth not That circle, mystic and sublime, Whose unreached centre is the throne Of Him, before whose awful brow, Meeting eternities are known As but an everlasting now. The thought removes thee far away,-- Too far,--beyond my love and tears; Ah, let me hold thee, as I may; And count thy time by earthly years. A YEAR OF BLESSEDNESS; wherein Not one dim cloud hath crossed thy soul; No sigh of grief, no touch of sin, No frail mortality's control; Nor once hath disappointment stung, Nor care, world-weary, made thee pine; But rapture, such as human tongue Hath found no language for, is thine. Made perfect at thy passing, who Can sum thy added glory now? As on, and onward, upward, through The angel ranks that lowly bow, Ascending still from height to height Unfaltering, where rapt spirits trod, Nor pausing 'mid their circles bright, Thou tendest inward unto God. A YEAR OF PROGRESS, in the love That's only learned in heaven; thy mind Unclogged of clay, and free to soar, Hath left the realms of doubt behind, And wondrous things which finite thought In vain essayed to solve, appear To thy untasked inquiries, fraught With explanation strangely clear. Thy reason owns no forced control, As held it here in needful thrall; God's mysteries court thy questioning soul, And thou may'st search and know them all.