What blessed revealings thou gavest of mind When simple and child-like to God 't is resigned !

We miss thy bright presence, we pine for thy smile,

But we know 't is still beaming unseen for a while; And when death breaks the fetters and sets the soul free,

'T will gleam a bright welcome to heaven and

thee.

And thy voice,

to hear,

how we longed its sweet accents

Its infantile prattle, its first "Mother dear"! But never, no, never! for earth 't was not given, 'T was strung and is tuned now a minstrel in heaven.

Still warble, my cherub, still pour forth thy praise; Though I see not, I hear thee, I catch thy sweet

lays,

When my heart will be still, and my spirit away, And faith bears me on to a glorious day.

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

THOU sleepest, but when wilt thou wake, fair

When the fawn awakes 'midst the forest wild?

When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of

morn,

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?

Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies

Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see ;-
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark

On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark.

Grief with pain-passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath pressed

Thy meek dropped eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall color all blossoms, fair child, but thee.

Thou 'rt gone from us, bright one;

shouldst die,

And life be left to the butterfly!

that thou

Thou 'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the

bough;

O for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

"T IS EVER THUS.

'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus; when Hope has built a bower,

Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,

To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust."

'Tis ever thus, 't is ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings,

With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so

fast,

Is struck to earth by lightning, or scattered by the blast.

'Tis ever thus, 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss,

With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this;

One moment round about us their angel lightnings

play,

Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.

'Tis ever thus, 't is ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth,

Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth:

The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is

mute,

The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute.

"T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with all that's best

below;

The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first

to go;