Babes were His Heralds, and His To conquer and to save, the Son of God Who wont to ride on cherub-wings abroad, (For darkness and the deep had heard His fame, Bereavement. MARK'D when vernal meads were bright, And many a primrose smil'd, I mark'd her, blithe as morning light, A basket on one tender arm Contain❜d her precious store Of spring-flowers in their freshest charm, The other wound with earnest hold A maid who scarce twelve years had told: One a bright bud, and one might seem Full joyous on their loving dream The summer months swept by: again And chill and damp that Sunday eve Behind, the guardian sister came, Her bright brow dim and pale- Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft Sweet toils, sweet cares, for ever gone! Or startling sound, the timid one E Thy first glad earthly task is o'er, But what if nearer than before She watch thee even to-day? What if henceforth by Heaven's decree O yield thee to her whisperings sweet: In loving hope with her unseen When foes are strong and trials keen, ANON. Brother, thou art gone before us. BROTHER, thou art gone before us, And thy saintly soul is flown Where tears are wiped from every eye And sorrow is unknown: From the burthen of the flesh, And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet Where the wicked cease from troubling, Sin can never taint thee now, And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, "Earth to earth," and "Dust to dust," Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. And when the Lord shall summon us, Whom thou hast left behind, May we, untainted by the world, May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, HENRY HART MILMAN. Burial of the Dead. WHO says, the wan autumnal sun Beams with too faint a smile To light up nature's face again, With thoughts of spring the heart beguile. Waft him, thou soft September breeze, And gently lay him down Within some circling woodland wall, Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall, And let some graceful arch be there Who says the widow's heart must break, A kinder, truer voice I hear, Which even beside that mournful bier Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink |