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A CHILD'S FANCY.

61

And when I find her, mother,

We will go away alone,

And I will tell her how we've mourned

All the while she has been gone!

Oh, I shall be delighted

To hear her speak again!

Though I know she'll ne

return to us

To ask her would be vain!

So I'll put my arms around her,
And look into her eyes,
And remember all I say to her,
And all her sweet replies.

And then I'll ask the angel
To take me back to you,
He'll bear me slow and steadily
Down through the ether blue.

And you'll only think, dear mother,
I have been out to play,

And have gone to sleep beneath a tree,
This sultry summer day.

THE DESERTED NURSERY.

THE little crib is empty

Where oft I've seen thee lie,
So beautiful in thy deep sleep,
Emblem of purity!

And oh, how silent is the place
Where late I heard thy voice!
In gleeful shout, or merry laugh,
Making my heart rejoice.

In vain I look around me,
Thy cherub form to see;
Art thou not hiding, baby?
Is this reality?

God's sunshine streameth in the room,
But midnight's in my heart,

I never dreamed such agony,
Baby, that we should part!

Thy playthings lie around me,
The silent rattle here-

Gay toys and picture-books are there

Ah! sure thou must be near.

THE DESERTED NURSERY.

Thy tiny pair of half-worn shoes,
Thy life-like frock of red;

Thy whistle, hat, and favourite whip-
Sweet baby, art thou dead?

My trembling hand encloses

Thy bright and clustering curls ;
Millions of gold can't buy them,
Nor India's gems or pearls;
"Tis all that's left to mortal sight,
Of thee, sweet baby, now!
Oh, Holy Father, teach my soul
Submissively to bow!

Last night, in troubled slumber,
I thought I heard thy cry,
And started quick to soothe thee, dear,
But oh, what agony !

The dimpled hand was not in mine,
Nor sweet lips pressed my cheek,
The lisping voice, it called me not-
What could I do but weep?

Father, forgive my anguish !
Thy ways are ever just;
Speak comfort to our broken hearts,

For thou art all our trust!
With thee the spirit liveth,

So cherished and so dear,

63

Lent to us for a little while,

Our earthly home to cheer.

Now the Good Shepherd leadeth him
Through pastures green and fair;
Onward and upward be our aim,

To meet our loved one there.

ROBERTS.

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

WHEN spirits from their cumbering clay
Ascend to heaven's bright shore,
Our hoping hearts, with triumph say,
"Not lost, but gone before."

The wheel lies broken at the fount,

The pitcher at the spring;

But upward doth the spirit mount,

And notes of glory sing.

Then calmly may our spirits bow

Beneath affliction's rod;

Who-who would murmur that his child
Is safe in joy and God?

S. F. SMITH.

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DEATH OF AN INFANT.

65

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip; he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded; forth from those blue eyes There spoke a wishful tenderness—a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear.

With ruthless haste he bound

The silken fringes of their curtaining lids

For ever; there had been a murmuring sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence-but there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy, from that marble brow,
Death gazed, and left it there; he dared not steal
The signet-ring of heaven.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE cup of sorrow is in constant circulation; we must all drink of it, and some drink deeply. It is not material whose turn comes first—the thing is to benefit by the draught; for it requires very little self-knowledge to convince us that we are unequal to prosperity, and unable to sustain it without growing careless, or attaching ourselves too strongly to the things which perish, to the exclusion of things eternal.

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