One midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,

She heard a voice, and, lo! her child
Stood by her weeping too!

His shroud was damp, his face was white; He said "I cannot sleep

Your tears have made my shroud so wet;
Oh, mother, do not weep!"

Oh, love is strong! the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears!

Oh, love is strong!-and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.

One eve a light shone round her bed,
And there she saw him stand,—
Her infant in his little shroud,

A taper in his hand.

"Lo! mother, see my shrould is dry, And I can sleep once more!"

And beautiful the parting smile

The little infant wore.

And down within the silent grave
He laid his weary head;

And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways—
Again she knelt in prayer,

And only asked of Heaven its aid,

Her heavy lot to bear.-Miss Landon.

HE HAS PASSED AWAY LIKE A BEAUTIFUL
DREAM.

He has pass'd away like a beautiful dream
Which comes in the morning hour;

So sunny and bright did his short life seem
Oh! he was our pride and our flower.

Our lost one was all that is lovely and bright So gentle, so good, and so brave;

But now he is snatched away from our sight

And lies in an Indian grave.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,

The tears of sorrow all be shed, And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead: Thrice happy-that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its noon-day storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,

My memory warmly treasures yet,

Thy features calm and mildly sweet.

But no, that look is not the last,

We yet may meet where Seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word—Farewell.

Peabody.

BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

*

Even such an awful soothing calm
We sometimes see alight

On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some Churchyard gate,
Their summons to the holy rite.

And such the tones of love, which break The stillness of that hour,

Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife

"The Resurrection and the Life,

"Am I believe, and die no more."

Unchang'd that voice-and though not yet
The dead sit up and speak,

Answering its call; we gladlier rest
Our darlings on earth's quiet breast,

And our hearts feel they must not break.