I thought it best to name my prospect to my two oldest children, a son sixteen and a daughter twelve. The reply of both was, "Go, mother," though their full hearts would hardly allow utterance until tears lent relief. With me words were nearly lost in feeling as I stood on Jordan's bank again to tempt its fearful tide and deeper tread beneath its wave. I had sat down to compose my thoughts for meeting, with my grief-worn mother, by the side of the cradle where lay (all unconscious of the deep pangs that rent our hearts) my dear little Grelet, about ten months old. The rest had all come in and were seated around, when my dear James Parnell, as if fully conscious of what was passing in his mother's heart, took a book and commenced reading the following lines:
"FORWARD AND FEAR NOT.
"Forward and fear not; the billows may roll,
But the power of Jehovah their rage can control.
The waves are in anger, but their tumult shall cease;
One word of His bidding will hush them to peace.
"Forward and fear not; though trials be near,
The Lord is thy refuge; whom shouldst thou fear?
His staff is thy comfort, thy safeguard His rod;