Hast thou ne'er marked thy baby dreaming?
Sawest thou no radiance o'er her spread?
Oh rich and pure were the bright rays streaming-
The songs of heaven were round my bed.

And when I waked, though thou wast bending
With looks almost like my sunny dreams,
My soul to that softer world was tending-
My home was still with the songs and beams.

My brothers !-my heart grew daily fonder,

When gazing on each young smiling face; But I yearned for the brothers who, sparkling yonder, Had sung to me oft, from their beauteous place.

Oh! many a lonely hour of weeping

Thou hast passed by their forsaken bed; But sorrow no more, they are not sleepingThey linger not with the silent dead.

Could I show thee mine and my brothers' dwelling-
Could I sing thee the songs we are singing here-
Could I tell thee the tales that we are telling-
Oh where, my mother, would be thy tear?

For we on milk-white wings are sailing,
Where rainbow tints surround the throne,
And while bright seraphs their eyes are veiling,
We see the face of the HOLY ONE.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

And we, when heaven's high arch rejoices,

With thundering notes of raptured praiseWe, thine own babes, with loud sweet voices, The frequent hallelujah raise.

And we, oh we, are closely pressing

Where stands the Lamb for sinners slainHark! "Glory, honour, power, and blessing!" Away! we are called to swell the strain.

Mother, loved mother! we are not sleeping;
Father! look up where the bright stars be;
Where all the planets their watch are keeping,
Singing and shining-there are we.

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CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.

BUT 'tis for those whose early hopes were fondly fixed on thee,

Who had, with deep affection, watched thy budding infancy;

For them we weep, and breathe the prayer that God would be their stay,

And pour, into their wounded hearts, sweet consolation's ray;

Enabling them with cheerful trust to bow before' the throne,

And in this trying hour to say-Thy will, not ours,

be done!

ANONYMOUS.

THE MEMORY OF THE CHILDREN.

IT is noteworthy that children, who are taken away by death, always remain in the memory of the parent, as children. Other children grow old; but the one we lost continues in youth. It looks as we last saw it in health. The imagination hears its sweet voice and light step, and sees its silken hair and clear bright eyes-all just as they were. Ten or twenty years may go by; the child remains in the memory as at first, a bright happy child. Its young and beautiful form moves before us; and what is such a memory but an angel-presence? Certainly, next to seeing an angel, is seeing, with a parent's heart, such a cherished form. Amidst this world of ambition and show, who shall say that this is not a means, under Providence, of subduing and spiritualizing the mind? Thus, in order to cherish such a remembrance, we are at times willing to turn even from the charms of the living. The sigh becomes sweeter than the song. Sorrow subdued becomes a friend, and sacred joy is mingled with the tears of holy recollection. Thus as grief ascends the mount of Time, she seems to pass through a sort of transformation. The convulsive agony changes to passive sorrow; and querulous misgivings to quiet meditation. There must be distress: let, then, the gushing tears flow,

THE YOUNGEST.

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for it is the course of nature; but, even with this, let there be the victory of Christian faith, the glorious hope of our holy religion. For

"Such a hope, like the rainbow, a being of light
May be born, like the rainbow, in tears."

THE YOUNGEST.

I ROCKED her in the cradle, And I laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest! What fireside circle hath not felt the charm Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grows old. The fond endearments of our earlier days, We keep alive in them, and when they die Our youthful joys we bury with them.

THE FLOWERS STILL LIVE.

THAT faith which centres in a being of love, assures us that the cut-off buds of earth will find some stem on which the Husbandman will engraft them; these flowers, which, like some others, fold themselves to sleep in the morning hour, will find a morning sun to awaken them. There aloft, in the heavens, the fogs of our days must one day be resolved into stars, even as the mist of the milkyway parts into the sun.

RICHTER.

THE DEATH OF A CHILD AT DAYBREAK.

"Let me go, for the day breaketh."

GEN. xxxi. 35.

CEASE here longer to detain me,
Kindest mother, drowned in wo;
How thy fond caresses pain me—
Morn advances-let me go.

See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day;

Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away!

Lately launched, a trembling stranger,
On this world's wild boisterous flood,
Pierced with sorrow, tossed with danger,
Gladly I return to God.

Now

my cries shall cease to grieve thee, Now my trembling heart, find rest, Kinder arms than thine receive me, Softer pillow than thy breast.

Weep not o'er those eyes that languish,
Upward turned towards their home;

Raptured they'll forget all anguish,
While they wait to see thee come.