And with unconscious beauty, day by day,
Woke gladsome dreams too sacred to depart.
Weep that his infant charms shall lure no more,
That we can ne'er again his form caress,
Weep that his winsome playfulness is o'er,
And all his budding graces ceased to bless.
Ay, weep!-but not for him,-too quickly came
The blush upon his cheek, too oft subdued
By look of praise or kindly word of blame,-
The tears of wounded love his eyes bedewed.
O not for such the world!-I smile to think
His soul the heartless never can molest,
Ungenial bonds shall ne'er his spirit link,
Nor baffled tenderness afflict his breast.
Spring was unfolding like his own fresh life,
When, from the bosom of parental love,
And boyhood's merry sports, an instant's strife
Bore him all stainless to a home above.
And thou, fond mother, was thy care a shield,
Through life to guard the gentle and the true ?
Unto a holier realm wilt thou not yield
The child who thither soon shall welcome you?
Time's waste, grief's pang, the tempter's subtle wile
Far from his nature have forever passed-
Look on the tranquil brow, the angel smile,
And then rejoice that peace is his at last!
O, WHEN the hours of life are past,
And death's dark shade arrives at last,
It is not sleep, it is not rest;
'Tis glory opening to the blest.
Their way to heaven was pure from sin,
And Christ shall there receive them ju;
There, each shall wear a robe of light,
Like his, divinely fair and bright.
There, parted hearts again shall meet,
In union holy, calm and sweet!
There, grief find rest; and never more
Shall sorrow call them to deplore.
There, angels will unite their prayers
With spirits bright and blest as theirs;
And light shall glance on every crown,
From suns that never more go down.
No storms shall ride the troubled air;
No voice of passion enter there;
But all be peaceful as the sigh
Of evening gales, that breathe, and die.
For there the God of mercy sheds
His purest influence on their heads,
And gilds the spirits round the throne
With glory radiant as his own.
I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so
Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed Upon the babe the more. I thought it sleptAnd yet its little bosom did not move!
I bent me down to look into its eyes,
But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand:
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do? "Wake, brother, wake!" I then, impatient, cried; "Open thine eyes, and look on me again!" He would not hear my voice. All pale beside My weeping mother sat, "and gazed and looked Unutterable things." "Will he not wake?"
asked. She answered but with tears.
Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look, Were cast-now on the babe once more were
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said-
"My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead! he never will awake."
He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad-
"He never will awake"-sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.
"I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life, as an officer resigns a commission."-Burns' Letters.
THE grave! the grave! oh, happy they
Whom death hath seized in early spring,
Who sleep within the house of clay,
Gathered when life is blossoming.
The grave, the grave! ah, sorrow there
May aim her many shafts in vain,
And the dark spectre of despair
Stalks powerless in that domain.
They sleep! the selfish and the vile
Can never more their feelings wring;
Unkind deceit, and heartless guile,
And envy never more can sting;
And love, which only lives to mourn,
Can never blight their hearts again,
For on the cold and senseless urn
His wasting mildews fall in vain.
Then weep not, weep not for the dead,
The cold clay doth not heed the tear;
But weep for those who bow the head
In life, when hope holds nothing dear:
Weep for the living who conceal
The moody madness of the breast;
Mourn not the dead, they cannot feel!
Mourn not the dead, they are at rest!
TO THE MEMORY OF A BROTHER.
BEHOLD the glorious morn! and where art thou, To feel its first rich breath on thy sweet brow, Child of our hope and love!
And stand, with the spring flowers about thee waking,
And catch the early music that is breaking
From valley and fresh grove?
Were these to thee a weariness-the birds,
And the bright waters, and the earnest words
Of strong affection shed-
A mother's love, whose holy influence fell,
In its deep truth and its unchanging spell,
Like light, upon thy head ?
"Young brother!" had the sound no joy for thee,
That in the dust this hour thy form should be,
And mute thy blessed voice?
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