"I know it now, my mother dear,
That song for me is given;

It is the Angels' choral hymn

That welcomes me to Heaven."

Miss Landon.

FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

Flowers! winter flowers!-the child is dead,
The mother cannot speak :
Oh, softly couch his little head,
Or Mary's heart will break!

Amid those curls of flaxen hair
This pale pink ribbon twine,

And on the little bosom there
Place this wan lock of mine.

How like a form in cold white stone,
The coffin'd infant lies!

Look mother on thy little one!

And tears will fill thine eyes.

She cannot weep-more faint she grows, More deadly pale and still:

Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill.

Go search the fields! the lichen wet

Bends o'er the unfailing well :

Beneath the furrow lingers yet
The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,
Where never froze the spring?

A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower!
The half-blown daisy bring!

Yes, lay the daisy's little head

Beside the little cheek;

Oh, haste! the last of five is dead

The childless cannot speak !-Elliot.

WE ARE CUT DOWN LIKE GRASS.

So in the passing of a day, doth pass
The bud and blossom of the life of man,

Nor e'en doth flourish more, but like the grass
Cut down, becometh withered, pale and wan.

Tasso.

THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD.

Room, gentle flowers! my child would pass to

Heaven,

Ye look'd not for her

yet with your soft eyes, O watchful ushers at death's narrow door! But lo! while you delay to let her forth, Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother! A cherub of the sky has turned away.

One look upon thy face ere thou depart!
My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!
My daughter! with thy birth has gushed a spring
I knew not of-filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee
A love-oh, God! it seems so- -that must flow
Far as thou fleest, and t'wixt heaven and me,
Hence forward, be a bright and yearning chain
Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell!

'Tis a harsh world! in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost,

But the foul grave. Thou, who late wast sleeping
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart,
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving
But it was sent thee with some tender thought,
How can I leave thee here! Alas for man!
The herb in its humility may fall

And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we-
-by hands that minister'd in life
Nothing but love to us-are thrust away,

The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms
And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever!

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead
up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dead hush of the mourners gone:
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters:
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers;
And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Seems like a comfort; and replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies—
Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone ;
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,
And every sight and sound familiar to her