LITTLE NELLY'S FUNERAL.

AND now the bell the bell

She had so often heard by night and day,
And listened to with solemn pleasure,

E'en as a living voice

Rung its remorseless toll for her,
So young, so beautiful, so good.

Decrepit age, and vigorous life, And blooming youth, and helpless infancy, Poured forth, on crutches, in the pride of strength

And health, in the full blush

Of promise, the mere dawn of life,

To gather round her tomb.

Old men were there

Whose eyes were dim

And senses failing,

Grandames, who might have died ten years ago,
And still been old, -the deaf, the blind, the lame,
The palsied,

The living dead in many shapes and forms,
To see the closing of this early grave.

What was the death it would shut in,

To that which still could crawl and creep above it!

Along the crowded path they bore her now,
Pure as the new-fallen snow

That covered it, whose day on earth

Had been as fleeting.

Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven
In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot,
She passed again, and the old church
Received her in its quiet shade.

O, it is hard to take to heart

The lesson that such deaths will teach!

But let no man reject it,

For it is one that all must learn,

And is a mighty, universal truth.

When death strikes down the innocent and young,

For every fragile form from which he lets

The parting spirit free,

A hundred virtues rise,

In shapes of mercy, charity, and love,

To walk the world and bless it.

Of every tear

That sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, Some good is born, some gentler nature comes.

TO A DYING INFANT.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle-bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes, with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be.

O, many a weary heart,

Weary of life's dull part,

Would fain lie down with thee!

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest ;

There the first flowers shall blow,

The first pure flakes of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! Peace! The little bosom
Labors with shortening breath.

Peace! Peace! That tremulous sigh

Speaks his departure nigh,

Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,

A thing all life and glee ;

But never then wert thou

So beautiful as now,

Baby, thou seem'st to me,

Thine upturned eyes glazed over,

Like harebells wet with dew,

Already veiled and hid,

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue,