of little value: it has as yet cost little, either in care or expense; and, unless in particular circumstances, it holds but an unimportant place in society. Yet it is in this very want of all probation of its value that the poignancy of the loss chiefly lies. We lament it, not at all for what it was at the time of its death, but for what it might have been, if it had been spared. We often find that the loss of an infant is lamented with a more violent and unappeasable grief than that of an adult; and this is simply because, in the one case, the damage is ascertained, and forms but one distinct idea; while in the other it is arbitrary, vast, beyond imagination. A child is, in one sense, a dangerous possession: it is apt to warp itself into the vitals of our very soul; so that, when God rends it away, the whole mental fabric is shattered. It should always, then, be borne in mind, that life is the more uncertain the nearer its commencement, and that the beings we are disposed to appreciate most are just those whom we are most apt to lose. The feelings of a parent, regarding a child in dangerous sickness, are beautifully expressed in the following poem, which will surprise many readers into tears:—[5] “Send down thy winged angel, God! Amidst this night so wild, And bid him come, where now we watch, And breathe upon our child. She lies upon her pillow, pale, And moans within her sleep, Or wakeneth with a patient smile, And striveth _not_ to weep! How gentle and how good a child She is, we know too well; And dearer to her parents’ hearts Than our weak words can tell. We love—we watch throughout the night, To aid, when need may be; We hope—and have despair’d at times, But _now_ we turn to Thee! Send down thy sweet-soul’d angel, God! Amidst the darkness wild, And bid him soothe our souls to-night, And heal our gentle child!”