I sobbed deep down within my heart,
It was so hard to bear-

"I have lost one little child of mine,

And I have not another to spare! Again I kissed the forehead small, So round, and soft, and fair: "The time is short, my darling," I said, as I smoothed her hair, "And it matters little who goes first, We shall all so soon be there."

But was it true, the thing I said?
I know it matters to me,

For oh, my children, the time is long
Until your face I see!

And I weep for the red Christingle
That faded first and fast;

And I yearn for the white Christingle,
That the angels took at last!

I could not tell her why it was
That Allan was first to die;
And though she often thought of it

She never could find out why;
But there came a deep content, and lay

On her face, that was sweeter every day,

And she said, "I shall know it by-and-by."

The angels had long patience,

And another Christmas came,

And the white Christingle burned once more,

And she bent over the flame;

And the angels watched her taper,
Standing scarce out of view,

And they loved the white so well, so well,
That they made her cheek white too!

And at last, on a bright May morning,
My snowdrop faded quite;

And the first day of the gentle June

We buried her out of sight.

The other two stay with me,

But oh! they seem so few;

I cannot forget that I once had four,
And now I have only two.

And I try to think the time is short,
And growing shorter daily;

But my heart goes heavily all day long,
And the children's go so gaily;
And I, that used to smile with them,
Whenever they smiled at all,

I have quite forgot my smiling now,
And it will not come at my call.

But by-and-by, as the months go on,
The pain will wear away;

And I shall be glad that the gathering home

Is nearer every day.

And my David of the ruddy cheeks

Will greet me glad and gay,

And the little girl the angels loved

Will not want to go away.

From Macmillan's Magazine.

HYMN OF BOYHOOD.

THE first dear thing that ever I loved
Was a mother's gentle eye,

That smiled as I woke on the dreamy couch

That cradled my infancy.

I never forget the joyous thrill

That smile in my spirit stirred,

Nor how it could charm me against my will, Till I laughed like a joyous bird.

And the next dear thing that ever I loved
Was a bunch of summer flowers,
With odours, and hues, and loveliness,
Fresh as from Eden's bowers.

I never can find such hues again,
Nor smell such a sweet perfume,
And if there be odours as sweet as then,
'Tis I that have lost the bloom.

And the next dear thing that ever I loved
Was a fawn-like little maid,
Half-pleased, half-awed by the frolic boy
That tortured her doll and played.
I never can see the gossamer

Which rude, rough zephyrs tease,
But I think how I tossed her glossy locks
With my whirling bonnet's breeze.

And the next good thing that ever I loved
Was a bow-kite in the sky,

And a little boat on the brooklet's surf,
And a dog for my company,

And a jingling hoop with many a bound
To my measured strike and true,
And a rocket sent up to the firmament,
When Even was out so blue.

And the next dear thing I was fond to love Was a field of wavy grain

Where the reapers mowed; or a ship in sail
On the billowy, billowy main.

And the next was a fiery, prancing horse,
That I felt like a man to stride;

And the next was a beautiful sailing boat,
With a helm it was hard to guide.

And the next dear thing I was fond to love Is tenderer far to tell,

'Twas a voice, and a hand, and a gentle eye, That dazzled me with its spell.

And the loveliest things I had loved before

Were only the landscape now,

On the canvas bright, where I pictured her In the glow of my early vow.

And the next good thing I was fain to love Was to sit in my cell alone,

Musing o'er all these lovely things,

For ever, for ever flown.

Then out I walked in the forest free,
Where wanton'd the autumn wind,

And the colour'd boughs swung shiveringly,
In harmony with my mind.

And a spirit was on me that next I loved
That ruleth my spirit still,

And maketh me murmur these sing-song words
Albeit against my will.

And I walked the woods till the winter came,

And then did I love the snow;

And I heard the gales through the wild wood aisles Like the Lord's own organ blow.

And the bush I had loved in my greenwood walk
I saw it afar away,

Surpliced with snows, like the bending priest
That kneels in the church to pray.

And I thought of the vaulted fane and high,
Where I stood when a little child,
Awed by the lauds sung thrillingly,
And the anthems undefiled.

And again to the vaulted church I went,
And I heard the same sweet prayers,
And the same full organ peals upsent,
And the same soft soothing airs;

And I felt in my spirit so drear and strange,
To think of the race I ran,

That I loved the sole thing that knew no change
In the soul of the boy and man.