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152     JESSIE G. M'CARTEE.

while, in a smaller circle, he was held up as a pattern of those virtues and graces which made him a perfect Christian gentleman.  He died in 1824.  Her mother is a daughter of the celebrated Isabella Graham, (whose name is too universally loved and honoured to need a word in passing, pleasant though it would be to render a tribute of grateful reverence to her memory,) and is herself distinguished in the religious world, for her unwearying energy and unfailing zeal in the cause of suffering humanity.  "She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hand to the needy;" while multitudes of orphan "children rise up and call her blessed."  Dr. Bethune of Philadelphia, the poet, orator, and divine, is the only brother of Mrs. M'Cartee.  She has written much, (though not for publication,) having felt all her life the joy and consolation of poetry, and that nothing was sweeter than to sit in her quiet parsonage, while her fingers were busy with her needle, and weave her peaceful thoughts into pleasant rhymes or holy hymns.

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP.

How beautiful is sleep! 
Upon its mother's breast,
How sweet the infant's rest!
And who but she can tell how dear
Her first-born's breathings 'tis to hear.

Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers!
When the moon her light doth shed;
Still she rocks thy cradle bed,
Singing in melodious numbers,
Lulling thee with prayer or hymn,
When all other eyes are dim.

How beautiful is sleep!
Behold the merry boy!
His dreams are full of joy,
He breaks the stillness of the night 
With tuneful laugh of wild delight.

JESSIE G. M'CARTEE.     153

E'en in sleep, his sports pursuing,
Through the woodland's leafy wild,
Now he roams a happy child,
Flow'rets all his pathway strewing;
And the morning's balmy air
Brings to him no toil or care.

How beautiful is sleep!
Where youthful Jacob slept,
Angels their bright watch kept,
And visions to his soul were given,
That led him to the gate of Heaven.

Exiled Pilgrim! many a morrow,
When thine earthly schemes were cross'd,
Mourning o'er thy loved and lost,
Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow
For that blessed hour of prayer,
And exclaim, God met me there! 

How blessed was that sleep 
The sinless Saviour knew!
In vain the storm winds blew,
Till he awoke to others' woes,
And hush'd the billows to repose.

Why did ye the master waken?
Faithless ones! there came an hour,
When, alone in mountain bower,
By his loved ones all forsaken,
He was left to pray and weep,
When ye all were wrapp'd in sleep.

How beautiful is sleep!
The sleep that Christians know:
Ye mourners! cease your woe,
While soft upon his Saviour's breast,
The Righteous sinks to endless rest.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 16:34:42 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 15:19:09 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 15:24:51