If, when sorrows oppress thee, relief thou wouldst seek,
Fly, fly to the feet of the mighty Unique.*

A KING AND A PHILOSOPHER.

When once a king did excessively and obstinately grieve for the death of his wife, whom he tenderly loved, a philosopher, observing it, told him that he was ready to comfort him by restoring her to life, supposing only that he would supply what was needful towards the performing it. The king said he was ready to furnish him with anything. The philosopher answered that he was provided with all things necessary except one thing. What that was, the king demanded. He replied that if he would, on his wife's tomb, inscribe the names of three persons who never mourned, she presently would revive. The king, after inquiry, told the philosopher that he could not find one such man. "Why then," said the philosopher, smiling, "O absurdest of all men, art thou not ashamed to moan as if thou hadst alone fallen into so grievous a case, whereas thou canst not find one person that ever was free from such domestic affliction?"+

• From Cural Odes, from the Folk-songs of Southern India, by Gover

† From Clouston's Popular Tales and Fictions.

KISAGOTAMI AND BUDDHA.

Kisâgotamî is the name of a young girl, whose marriage with the only son of a wealthy man was brought about in true fairy-tale fashion. She had one child, but when the beautiful boy could run alone, it died. The young girl in her love for it carried the dead child clasped to her bosom, and went from house to house of her pitying friends asking them to give her medicine for it. But a Buddhist mendicant, thinking, 'she does not understand,' said to her, 'My good girl, I myself have no such medicine as you ask for, but I think I know of one who has.' 'O tell me who that is,'

said Kisâgotamî. 'The Buddha can give you medicine; go to him,' was the answer. She went to Gautama, and doing homage to him, said, 'Lord and Master, do you know any medicine that will be good for my child?' 'Yes, I know of some,' said the teacher. Now it was the custom for patients or their friends to provide the herbs which the doctors required, and so she asked what herbs he would want. I want some mustard-seed,' he said; and when the poor girl eagerly promised to bring some of so common a drug, he added, 'You must get it from some house where no son, or husband, or parent, or slave has died.' 'Very good,' she said, and went t ask for it, still carrying her dead child with her. The people said, 'Here is mustard-seed, take it;' but when she asked, 'In my friend's house has any son died, or a husband or a parent or a slave ?' they answered, 'Lady! What is this that you say? The living are few, but the dead are many.' Then she went to other houses, but one said, 'I have lost a son,' another, 'We have lost our parents,' another, I have lost my slave.' At last, not being able to find a single house where no one had

died, her mind began to clear, and summoning up resolution, she left the dead body of her child in a forest, and returning to the Buddha paid him homage. He said to her, 'Have you the mustard-seed?' My Lord,' she replied, 'I have not; the people tell me that the living are few, but the dead are many.' Then he talked to her on that essential part of his system-the impermanency of all things, till her doubts were cleared away, and accepting her lot, she became a disciple. -PARABLE OF THE MUSTARD-SEED.*

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

'Tis hard, dear babe, to think that for ever we must part,

That thou again wilt never be press'd unto my heart;

For though thou wert but young, thou wert made to us most dear,

By a little age of sickness, anxiety, and fear.

How often with thy father have I sat beside thy bed,

How we look'd at one another when thy colour came and fled;

For death we both forboded, though we dared not tell our fears,

And we turn'd aside our faces to hide the coming tears.

How sweet it was to listen to each newly prattled word,

From David's Buddhism.

And to see thy dark eyes glisten with the look of health restored;

But, alas thy beauty's blossom could scarce unfold its charms,

When the cruel hand of death came to pluck thee from our arms.

No stranger without shrinking could have seen thine eyes, still bright,

Fix'd open without winking, when thy spirit took its flight;

Then what we must have suffer'd, who so watch'd them, when awake,

And nightly on their sleep stole a silent kiss to take?

In every thing their lingers some thought of thee behind,-

I feel thy little fingers still round my own entwined;

Not a night but in my dreams I dreams I can hear thy little cries;

I start awake-and think--and the tears suffuse my eyes.

Thy trinklets, toys, and dresses, we are forced to hide them all;

They waken new distresses by the scenes that they recall;

And every lovely child whom we happen to accost Brings thrilling recollections of the beauty we

have lost.

But if such sight of sorrow can our sympathies excite,

From others we may borrow consolation and delight:

And when we mourn the joys of which our bosoms are bereft,

Let us think with grateful hearts of the many that are left.*

From Gaieties and Gravities.