When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And out-shaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;
That's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded like a summer blossom.

Now, the litter she doth lie on,
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion;
Go, as past a pleasant meadow,
Through the valley of the shadow.
Take her softly, holy angels,
Past the ranks of God's evangels;
Past the saints and martyrs holy,
To the Earth-Born, meek and lowly:
We would have our precious blossom
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom.

A Household Lamentation.

ROOM, Mother Earth, upon thy breast for this young child of ours;

Give her a quiet resting-place among thy buds and flowers;

Oh! take her gently from our arms unto thy silent

fold,

For she is calmly beautiful, and scarcely two years

old,

And ever since she breathed on us hath tender nursing known:

No wonder that with aching hearts we leave her here alone.

How we shall miss the roguish glee, the merry, merry voice,

That in the darkest, dreariest day would make us to rejoice!

How sweet was every morning kiss, each parting for the night,

Her lisping words, that on us fell as gently as the light!

But death came softly to the spot where she was wont

to rest,

And bade us take her from our home and lay her on thy breast.

So, mother, thou hast one child more, and we have one child less;

The sweetest spot in all our hearts seems now a wilderness,

From which the warm light of the sun has wandered swift and far,

And nothing there of radiance left but Memory's solemn star:

We gaze a moment on its light, then sadly turn aside, As though we now had none to love, and all with her had died.

Mother, we know we should rejoice that she has gone before

Gone where the withering hand of death shall never touch her more,

Up to the clime of sinless souls, a golden harp to bear, And join the everlasting song of singing children there :

Yet, when we think how dear she was to us in her

brief stay,

We can but weep that one so sweet so early passed

away.

R.

And One is Not.

WHEN at eve my children gather
Round the lowly ingle-side,
Whispering to my spirit, “ Father,

66

In thy love we each confide;”
While I press them to my bosom,
In an overflow of joy,

How I miss that stricken blossom,
Him who was the only boy!

Often will they talk of brother,
Even she who knew him not;
For I think that for another

He should never be forgot;
And I love to link their feelings
With the kindred one away,
Though the thought will oft be stealing,
That dear form is naught but clay.

Still I bow in bland submission;
Even grateful try to be:
One is not; but, blest condition!
Providence has left me three.

So I'll press them to my bosom,
In an overflow of joy;

Heaven has gained my cherished blossom,

God's is now my only boy!

REV. E. C. JONES.

Sonnet.

OFT have I thought they err, who, having lost
That love-gift of our youth, an infant child,
Yield the faint heart to those emotions wild
With which, too oft, strong Memory is crost,
Shrinking with sudden gasp, as if a ghost
Frowned in their path. Not thus the precepts mild
Of Jesus teach; which never yet beguiled
Man with vain promises. God loves us most
When chastening us; and He who conquered
death

Permits not that we still deem death a curse.
The font is man's true tomb; the grave his nurse
For heaven, and feeder with immortal breath.
Oh, grieve not for the dead! None pass from earth
Too soon: God then fulfils his
purpose in our birth!

SIR AUBREY DE VERE.