FAREWELL TO THE INFANT DEAD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
Oh blest departed one!

Whose all of life a rosy ray

Blushed into dawn, and passed away.

Yes! thou art fled-ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub soul and form;
Closed is the soft, ephemeral flower
That never felt a storm!

The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath,
All that it knew, from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light

That Heaven benignly called thee hence, Ere yet the world would breathe one blight O'er thy sweet innocence.

And thou that brighter home to bless

Art passed with all thy loveliness!

Oh! hadst thou still on earth remained,

Vision of beauty! fair but brief!

How soon thy brightness had been stained

With passion or with grief!

THE FATHER'S LAMENT.

Now not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,

No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom,
Such dwelling to adorn ;

Fragrance and flowers, and dews must be,
The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorned with nature's brightest wreath,
Each glowing season shall confine
Its incense there to breathe,

And oft upon the midnight air

Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

127

MRS. HEMANS.

THE FATHER'S LAMENT.

I HAE naebody now,

I hae naebody now,

To meet me upon the green,

Wi' light locks waving over her brow,

An' joy in her deep blue e'en;

Wi' the soft sweet kiss, an' the happy smile,
An' the dance o'er the lightsome fae,
An' the wie bit tale o' news the while
That happened when I was away.

I hae naebody now-I hae naebody now
To clasp at my bosom at even,
O'er her calm sleep to breathe a vow

An' pray for the blessing of Heaven;
An' the wild embrace-and the gleesome face,
In the morning that met mine eye
Where are they now?-Where are they now?
In the cauld-cauld grave they lie.

There's naebody kens-there's naebody kens,
And oh! may they never prove,
That sharpest degree of agony

For the child of their earthly love.
To see a flower, in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay,

An' softly asleep, in the arms o' death
Bear its sweet soul away.

Oh dinna break my poor auld heart,

Nor at the loss repine,

For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent by her Father and mine.
Yet I maun mourn-and I will mourn
Even to my latest day,

For though my darling can never return,

I shall follow her soon away.

JAMES HOGG.

WOULD YOU CALL IT BACK?

129

WOULD YOU CALL IT BACK?

THE Great, the Good Physician, who healed the sick and lame, and blind, and leprous with his touch, nay, stood beside the tomb, Conqueror of Death, the Resurrection and the Life, has heard your prayer, and restored your little one to immortal health and beauty, bearing it in the arms of his holy angels to a blessed clime, where all is new and bright and serene and full of joy, that never again it might know the ills of mortal being. Very sweet was it for you to look upon your child, laughing in your arms, or playing with its fellows on the shaded sod and among the flowers; but now it is rejoicing on its heavenly Father's bosom, or under the Tree of Life, in the sinless, thornless, unfading Paradise of the redeemed. Would you call it back to the sick-bed, the uncertain life, the certain death, which must await it here? Would you replace the crown encircling its brow by wrinkles and gray hairs, hush its glad song, for the sighing, the groaning, the moans of earth? Would you take it from the arms of God, even to your arms?

BETHUNE.

THE LAST OF SEVEN.

Он, be not angry, chide her not,
Although the child has erred;
Nor bring the tears into her eyes
By one ungentle word.

When that sweet linnet sang,

Our summer roses died,

before

A sister's arm was round her neck,

A brother at her side.

But now in grief she walks alone
By every flowering bed,
That sister's clasping arm is cold;
That brother's voice is fled.

And when she sits beside my knee,
With face so pale and meek,
And eyes bent o'er her book, I see
The tears are on her cheek.

Then chide her not-but whisper now,
"Thy trespass is forgiven."

How canst thou frown on that pale face,
She is the last of seven.

R. A. WILMOT.