The Dying Sunday School Boy.

His hands were clasp'd, his eyelids clos'd, As on his couch he lay, While slumber seem'd to wrap the form That pain had worn away: But still the watching mother marked His pallid lips to part, As if some all-absorbing thought Lay on his dreaming heart; For yet he slept not. Silent prayer Commun'd with God alone, And then his glazing eyes he rais'd, And spoke with tender tone: "Oh mother! often in my class, I've heard the teacher say, That those who to the Saviour turn He would not cast away; And so, beside my bed I knelt While early morn was dim, Imploring Heaven to teach my soul The way to turn to Him; And now, behold! through golden clouds, A pierced hand I see, And listen to a glorious Voice, Arise! and come to Me." His breath grew faint, but soft and low The parting whisper sigh'd, "I come, dear Lord, I come!" and so, Without a pang he died. Oh blessed child! with whom the strife Of fear and care are o'er, Methinks thine angel smile we see From yon celestial shore, And hear thee singing to His praise Whose boundless mercy gave Unto thy meek and trusting soul, The victory o'er the Grave.