Their cradle-sports beside the hearth,
At winter's eve, are o'er;
Their tuneful tones, so full of mirth,
Delight the ear no more :—
Yet still the thrilling echo lives,
And many a lisping word
Is treasured in affection's heart,
By grieving memory stirred.

Three little graves!- Three little graves! Come hither ye who see

Your blooming babes around you smile,

A blissful company,

And of those childless parents think,

With sympathizing pain,

And soothe them with a Saviour's words,

"Your dead shall rise again.”

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY

OUR LAMBS.

THE tender Shepherd beckoningly

Our Lambs doth hold,

That we may take our own when He
Makes up the fold.

GERALD MASSEY.

THE SERAPH CHILD.

The following lines were written by DANIEL WEBSTER in 1825, on the death of a son three years of age, and were enclosed in a letter to his wife:

My son, thou wast my heart's delight,
Thy morn of life was gay and cheery;
That morn has rushed to sudden night,
Thy father's house is sad and dreary.

I held thee on my knee, my son !

And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping; But ah! thy little day is done,

Thou 'rt with my angel sister sleeping.

The staff on which my years should lean
Is broken, ere those years come o'er me:
My funeral rites thou should'st have seen,
But thou art in thy tomb before me.

Thou rearest to me no filial stone,

No parent's grave with tears beholdest;

Thou art my ancestor, my son!

And stand'st in Heaven's account the oldest.

On earth my lot was soonest cast,

Thy generation after mine; Thou hast thy predecessor past; Earlier eternity is thine.

I should have set before thine eyes

The road to heaven, and showed it clear; But thou untaught spring'st to the skies, And leav'st thy teacher lingering here.

Sweet seraph, I would learn of thee,
And hasten to partake thy bliss!
And oh! to thy world welcome me,
As first I welcomed thee to this.

Dear angel, thou art safe in Heaven;
No prayer for thee need more be made;
Oh! let thy prayer for those be given
Who oft have blessed thy infant head.

My father! I beheld thee born,

And led thy tottering steps with care; Before me risen to heaven's bright morn, My son! my father! guide me there.

EPITAPH.

ERE sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

COLERIDGE.

OUR BABY.

TO-DAY we cut the fragrant sod,
With trembling hands, asunder,
And lay this well beloved of God,
Our dear dead baby, under.
Oh, hearts that ache, and ache afresh!
Oh, tears too blindly raining!
Our hearts are weak, yet, being flesh,
Too strong for our restraining!

Sleep, darling, sleep! Cold rains shall steep
Thy little turf-made dwelling ;

Thou wilt not know so far below.

What winds or storms are swelling; And birds shall sing, in the warm spring, And flowers bloom about thee: Thou wilt not heed them, love, but oh, The loneliness without thee!

Father, we will be comforted!

Thou wast the gracious giver:

We yield her

up not dead, not dead

To dwell with Thee forever!

Take Thou our child! Ours for a day,

Thine, while the ages blossom!

This little shining head we lay

In the Redeemer's bosom !

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

DEATH never came so nigh to me before,
Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused,
Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness,
Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest,
And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf,
Of faults forgotten, and an inner place
Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends;
But these were idle fancies, satisfied
With the mere husk of this great mystery,
And dwelling in the outward shows of things.
Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams,
Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth
Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom,
With earth's warm patch of sunshine well con-
tent:

'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up,
Whose golden rounds are our calamities,
Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God
The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.

True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold,

When he is sent to summon those we love,
But all God's angels come to us disguised;
Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death,
One after other lift their frowning masks,