So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have

to go:

But for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-dayBut, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past

Oh, look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in

a glow;

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I

know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that, ere this day is done,

The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the

sun,

For ever and for ever, with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan-why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home,

And there to wait a little while, till you and Effie come;

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary TENNYSON.

are at rest.

How Peacefully!

How peacefully they rest,

Cross-folded there

Upon his little breast,

Those tiny hands that ne'er were still before,
But ever sported with its mother's hair,
Or the bright gem that on her breast she wore!

Her heart no more will beat

To feel the touch of that soft palm,
That ever seemed a new surprise,
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes,
To bless him with their holy calm;
Sweet thoughts, that left her eyes as sweet!

How quiet are the hands

That wore those pleasant bands!

But that they do not rise and sink
With his calm breathing, I should think
That he were dropped asleep.

Alas! too deep-too deep

Is this his slumber!

Time scarce can number

The years ere he will wake again—
Oh! may we see his eyelids open then!

He did but float a little way

Adown the stream of time,

With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, And listening to their fairy chime.

His slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale;

He did but float a little way,

And putting to the shore, While yet 'twas early day, Went calmly on his way,

To dwell with us no more.

No jarring did he feel,

No grating on his vessel's keel.
A strip of silver sand

Mingled the waters with the land,
Where he was seen no more!

Oh! stern word-nevermore!

Sonnet

ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD.

"It is not the will of my Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish."

THE day is beautiful, and nature springs
To life and light again. Where art thou gone
In thy young bloom, my own, my lovely one?
Nor sun, nor balmy air, thy image brings
To bless my longing eyes. The violet flings
Its rath perfume around; sweet warblers own
Their joy in varied song; yet, sad alone,
Can I rejoice, when all surrounding things
Tell of thy opening beauty, shrouded now
In the cold precincts of the silent tomb?
I did not think to weep thy early doom,
My best beloved! Yet would I meekly bow
To His decree, who, in the words of love—
"She will not perish !"—whispers from above.

The Child of James Melville,

BORN, JULY 9, 1586. DIED ABOUT JANUARY, 1588.

This page, if thou be a pater [parent, father] that reads it, thou wilt apardone me; if nocht, suspend thy censure till thou be a father, as said the grave Lacedæmonian, Agesilaus.-Autobiography of James Melville.

ONE time my soul was pierced as with a sword,
Contending still with men untaught and wild,
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd,
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift my precious flower was given ;
A very summer fragrance was its life;

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven
When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss; With outstretched arms its care-wrought father greet: Oh! in the desert what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart;

A few short months-else toilsome all and sad; But that home solace nerved me for my part, And of the babe I was exceeding glad!