Two asleep lie buried yonder-
Three for us yet gladden earth:
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie,
Willie thee, our snow-drop pure,
From the earth shall second springtime
Nevermore allure.
Yet while thinking-Oh! our lost ones!
Of how dear ye were to us,
Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus ?
Why across the cold dim churchyard
Flit such visions of despair?
Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel
Saith-"Ye are not there!"
Where then are ye? With the Saviour
Blest, for ever blest, are ye,
'Mid the sinless little children,
Who have heard this-" Come to me;"
Passed the shades of death's dark valley,
Now ye lean upon His breast:
Where the wicked cease. from troubling,
And the weary rest.
JUST as the child could totter on the floor,
And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, Range through the garden walk, where low ground flowers
Were peeping forth-shy messengers of SpringEven at that hopeful time, the winds of March, One sunny day, smiting insidiously,
Raised in the tender passage of the throat
Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarned,
The household lost their hope and soul's delight.
But Providence-that gives and takes away
By His own law-is merciful and just;
Time wants not power to soften all regrets,
And
prayer, and thought, can bring to worst distress
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears
Fail not to spring from either parent's eye,
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own;
Yet this departed little one, too long
The innocent trouble of their quiet, sleeps
In what may now be called a peaceful grave.
WORDSWORTH.
When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.
A MOTHER came, when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lowly spring;
Thus she cried, while tears were falling,
Calling on the fairy king:
"Why with spell my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy?
Why destroy a mother's blessing!
Wherefore steal my baby boy?
"O'er the mountain, through the wild wood
Where his childhood loved to play,
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander, day by day;
There I wander, growing fonder
Of the child that made my joy,
On the echoes wildly calling,
To restore my darling boy.
"But in vain my plaintive calling-
Tears are falling all in vain-
He now sports with fairy pleasures,
'He's the treasure of their train.
Fare thee well, my child, for ever!
In this world I've lost my joy;
But in the next we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy."
"IN RAMAH IS A VOICE HEARD."
Nor the ripe ears alone,
But gentle flowers new blown,
Fall with the Reaper's stroke.
This blossom of thy love,
The Reaper, DEATH, has broke.
Yet, mother! look above,
And sooth thy bosom's pain,
For there in Paradise thy flower thou shalt regain.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
ERE sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
BEAUTIFUL baby! art thou sleeping
Ne'er to unclose that beaming eye?
Deaf to the voice of a mother's weeping,
All unmoved by a father's sigh!
Wilt thou forsake the breast that bore thee;
Seeking alone a distant spot,
To bid the cold, damp sod close o'er thee,
Amid the slumberers who waken not?
Mother, loved mother! I am not sleeping;
Father! look up to the soft blue sky,
Where the glittering stars bright watch are keeping,
Singing and shining—there am I.
Warm was the tender breast that bore me,
'Twas sweet, my mother, to rest with thee:
But I was chosen-thou must restore me
To the fonder bosom that bled for me.
I lingered below, till just discerning
My father's voice and my mother's smile; Love's infant lesson my heart was learning, But oft my spirit was sad the while.
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