A Health.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'T is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon,—

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

The Three Sons.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his child

ish years.

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fairAnd yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious

air:

I know his heart is fond and kind; I know he loveth me:
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency.
But that which others most admire, is the thought which
fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together

walk;

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children

talk.

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or

ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics

all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to

pray;

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.

O, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years

like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful

brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee;

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever

been;

But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feel

ing;

And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,

Will shout for joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet.

A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with cheerful tone,

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and

hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may

prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly

love;

And if beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must

dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were

given;

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in

heaven.

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph

brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he

doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not

reveal.

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at

rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving

breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever

fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering

wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every

eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain

peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss

may sever;

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery—

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain

O! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here

again.

JOHN MOULTRIE.

The Annuity.

I GAED to spend a week in Fife—
An unco week it proved to be-
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin' her viduity.

Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
And, I was sae left to mysel,-
I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh—

She just was turned o' saxty-three-
I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh,
By human ingenuity.

But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she 's yet as stieve as stane-
The limmer's growin' young again,
Since she got her annuity.

She's crined' awa' to bane and skin,
But that, it seems, is nought to me;
She 's like to live—although she 's in
The last stage o' tenuity.

She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums;