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pleased with the notice taken of their children, and if the counsel be lost upon them, perhaps the parents receive it themselves. Indeed this has been the case already; the arrow which I aimed at the young, without totally missing them, has reached the hearts of others. Last Sunday morning, for instance, in preaching from." Fear not, little flock," I was telling the children how kind our dear Shepherd is ever to the lambs of his fold, and when I had done, two persons came and told me how much they had been comforted and strengthened in their souls, by that part of the sermon. One of them had come seven miles, and had intended to have gone elsewhere; but the Providence of God directed her to the Forest church, and gave her that comfort and joy, which she said she had long sought in vain. Another person, as I was informed by his wife, who had led a very careless and dissolute life, and who had often heard the terrurs of the Lord with unconcern, and even with a kind of daring opposition, went home after the above discourse, gentle as a lamb, weeping contrite tears of godly sorrow, that he had been so ungrateful and rebellious to his Heavenly Shepherd, whose tender love and compassion he had heard set forth before him. I am very thankful for these and several particular instances of God's favor to this people. Indeed there seems to be a general-oh! that it may be a lasting-interest exited in their souls about salvation. The apparent thirst for hearing the word of God, and the profound attention paid, are such as I never witnessed. I augur good from this, because where there is a desire for grace excited, I hope, I believe, that that desire will be satisfied. You will excuse the egotism of this letter, but it was unavoidable, unless I had written on foreign subjects. Your affectionate friend and brother in Christ,


Mr. Bridgman, for reasons of which we are not informed, seceded from the Church of England, and became in after life minister of St. John's Chapel, Walworth, Surrey, at which place he died in 1844, after a life of much usefulness, in the full assurance of faith. Though he suffered long and severely from the distressing nature of his illness, his end was eminently peace.

These particulars are extracted from a small pamphlet issued by Jackson & Walford, entitled “Miscellaneous Papers, published as an appendix to the Dying Experience of the late Rev. Isaac Bridgman, A.M." which with the former work here referred to, deserves the serious perusal of all who attach importance to the experience of those who have tasted of God's grace in Christ.


Thou art, O Lord, my only trust,
When friends are mingled with the dust,

And all my loves are gone.
When earth has nothing to bestow,
And every flower is dead below,

I look to Thee alone.
Thou wilt not leave, in doubt and fear,
The humble soul, who loves to hear

The lessons of Thy word.
When foes around us thickly press,
And all is danger and distress,

There's safety in the Lord.
The bosom friend may sleep below
The churchyard turf, and we may go

To close a loved one's eyes :
They will not always slumber there;
We see a world more bright and fair,

A home beyond the skies.
And we may feel the bitter dart,
Most keenly rankling in the heart,

By some dark ingrate driven :
In us revenge can never burn;
We pity, pardon; then we turn,

And rest our souls in heaven.
'Tis thou, O Lord, who shield'st my head,
And draws't Thy curtains round my bed ;

I sleep secure in Thee :
And, Oh, may soon that time arrive,
When we before Thy face shall live
Through all eternity.


“ The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him.”

“I would, but cannot pray,"
Lord, teach me! day by day,

Thy grace impart;
Pour thy rich blessings down,
Incline my heart to own,

My God, Thou art!
Teach me to feel the need
Of Christ, who deigned to bleed,

My soul to save :
Let me not spurn his love,
Thy Spirit from above

Give, as he gave.
Thy righteous wrath forbear,
Oh, may this humble prayer

To thee ascend !
Be Thou in life and death,
E'en to my latest breath,

My guardian friend.
Shield me from every ill,
Be Thou my refuge, till

Earth's storms are o'er ;
Oh, let thy still small voice,
This drooping heart rejoice,

Lord, evermore!
Check every vain desire,
Kindle within a fire

Of holy zeal ;
Let me look up to thee
For aid, where'er I be,

'Midst woe or weal. Cambridge.

G. W.


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(The dying words of a child.)

“ Mother, I love you,”—but mine eyes

Are closing fast in death ;
Cold damps are on my pallid brow,

And shorter grows my breath -
Yet, in this awful, solemn hour,

My spirit turns to thee,
For thou hast been my friend and guide

From earliest infancy.

“Mother, I love you,”-earthly things

Are fading from my sight,
Their joys and sorrows all are past,

Like bygone dreams of night;
But, unforgotten still remain

Your kindness and your care, Who shielded me through youth's gay hours,

From many a fatal snare.

“Mother, I love you!” He who died,

Revered his parent too-
His latest glance was turned on her,

And mine shall be for you:
Thy gentle hand my pillow smooths,

Thine arm supports my head,
Kind watchfulness and tenderness

Surround my dying bed.

Oh, how unlike my Saviour God,

When hanging on the tree !
No mother from his brow wiped off

The dews of agony-
No cooling drink assuaged his thirst,

But mockery, taunt, and sneer
Were offered by the murderous band,

Who were assembled near.

But I, surrounded by my friends,

Shall softly sink to rest;
Faith lights the darksome vale of death,

And fills with joy my breast;
Mother, farewell ! when life is o'er,

God grant that we may meet
On Canaan's blest and radiant shore,

In bliss at Jesu's feet!


THE CHRISTIAN EXILE. (Written by the Rev. I. Bridgman, a few weeks before his last

Where is that summer, with eternal sun?

Resplendent glory! ne'er beheld on earth ;
And when to us this weary life is done,
Where is that region with its hallowed mirth?

Far from this low, dark land.
Where is the temple of Jehovah shining-

The sacred portals, and the joyful strains,
Where all the spirits of the just combining
Sing loud hosannas on those blisful plains?

Far from this low, dark land.
There where the Seraphim and Cherubim,

The ancient prophets, and the hoary seers,
And martyred saints, join in one sacred hymn,
With all the ransomed from this vale of tears,

Far from this low, dark land.
There is that summer and that temple shining,

Prophets and martyrs, saints and seraph there,
Where Jesus is; in Heaven all combining,

Shout his high praises, and his glory share.
Spirits, immortal! haste from earth away

To realms of love, and joy, and endless light-
To mansions shining in perpetual day,
Where is nor sin, nor woe, nor death, nor night,

In our Emmanuel's land.

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