THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

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When, oh! how I feared, as I caught the last

gleam

Of his vanishing form-it was only a dream!

Oh, pale grew the mother, and heavy her heart, For she knew her fair boy from the world must depart;

That his bright looks must fade in the dust of the tomb

Ere the autumn winds wither the summer's rich bloom.

Oh! how his young footsteps she watched day by day,

As his delicate form wasted slowly away;

Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed on his face,

And he crept up to die in her loving embrace.

"Oh, clasp me, my mother, close-close to thy breast,

On that gentle pillow again let me rest;

Let me gaze up once more to that dear loving eye, And then-oh, methinks-I am ready to die.

"And kiss me, dear mother!-oh, quickly, for

see!

The bright blessed angels are waiting for me!"

So wild was the anguish that swept through her breast,

As the long frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed,

And felt the vain search of his soft loving eye, As it strove to meet her's ere the fair boy could die;

"I see you not, mother, for darkness and night Are hiding your dear loving face from my sight.

"But I hear your low sobbings-dear mother, good bye!

The angels are ready to bear me on high;

I will wait for you there-oh, tarry not long,
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song."

He ceased-and his hands meekly clasped on his breast,

While his sweet face sank down on his pillow to

rest;

When closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim, Went up with the angels that waited for him!

MRS. C. M. SAWYER.

THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

123

THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

I HAD a little sister once,

And she was wondrous fair;
Like twined links of the yellow gold
Was the waving of her hair.

Her face was like a day in June,
When all is sweet and still,

And the shadows of the summer clouds
Creep softly o'er the hill.

Oh my sister's voice, I hear it yet,
It comes upon mine ear,

Like the singing of a joyous bird

When the summer months are near.

Sometimes the notes would rise at eve
So fairy-like and wild,
My mother thought a spirit sang,

And not the gentle child.

But then we heard the little pet

Come dancing to the door,
And met the gaze of brighter eyes
Than ever spirit wore.

And she would enter, full of glee,

Her long fair tresses bound
With a garland of the simple flowers,
By mountain-streamlet found.

She never bore the garden's pride,
The red rose on her breast;
Our own sweet wild-flower ever loved
The other wild-flowers best.

Like them, she seemed to cause no toil,
To give no pain or care,

But to bask and bloom on a lonely spot
In the warm and sunny air.

And oh! like them, as they come in spring And with summer's fate decay,

She passed with the sun's last parting breath From life's rough path, away.

And when she died-'neath an old oak tree
My sister's grave was made,

For, when on earth, she used to love
Its dark and pensive shade.

And every spring in that old oak tree
The song-birds build their nests,

And wild-flowers bloom in the soft green
Where my dead sister rests.

turf

THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

There is no stone raised there to tell
My sister's name and age;
For that dear name in every heart
Is carved on memory's page.

We miss her in the hour of joy!
For when all hearts were light
There was no step so gay as her's,
No eye so glad and bright.

We miss her in the hour of wo:
For then she tried to cheer,

And the soothing words of the pious child
Could dry the mourner's tear.

Even when she erred, we could not chide,
For though the fault were small
She always mourned so much-and sued
For pardon-from us all.

She was too pure for earthly love,—

Strength to our hearts was given,

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And we yielded her in her childhood's light To a brighter home in heaven.