Those rosy lips of thine!

I see them part, as on thy mother's breast Thou breath'st so sweet-thy warm cheek press

While sinking calm to rest,

Thine infant prayer-"Father, who art in Heaven! Thy kingdom come-oh, be my sins forgiven !"

Thy sins, my child!--No stain

Hath ever spoiled so pure a spirit's shrine;
No sin upon thy spotless heart hath lain
That needs forgiveness-thine

Hath been an hour of innocence, and guile
A stranger to that cherub brow and smile.

And angels call thee now, to bear thee back; "Thy gentle spirit we receive; sweet child, come, See! on our homeward track

Celestial ones are singing. See! near thy throne The sainted spirits welcome thee, loved one."

Hark! Thy last breath and sighs

Upon thy mother's bosom! Thou dost but sleep And shall awake again in Paradise.

Then who, oh! who would weep?

Sleep on, my sweet one! Sleep! So early gone; To earth a child is lost-to Heaven a cherub

born!

TO A DYING CHILD.

SWEET child, that wasted form,
That pale and mournful brow,
O'er which thy long, dark tresses
In shadowy beauty flow-
That eye, whence soul is darting
With such strange brilliancy,
Tell us thou art departing-

This world is not for thee.

No! not for thee is woven
That wreath of joy and woe,
That crown of thorns and flowers,
Which all must wear below!

We bend in anguish o'er thee,
Yet feel that thou art blessed,

Loved one, so early summoned
To enter into rest.

Soon shall thy bright young spirit

From earth's cold chains be free; Soon shalt thou meet that Saviour, Who gave himself for thee. Soon shalt thou be rejoicing, Unsullied as thou art,

In the blessed vision promised

Unto the pure in heart.

Yes, thou art going home,

Our Father's face to see, In perfect bliss and glory; But we, O, where are we ? While that celestial country Thick clouds and darkness hide, In a strange land of exile, Still, still must we abide.

O Father of our spirits,

We can but look to thee;
Though chastened, not forsaken,
Shall we thy children be.
We take the cup of sorrow,
As did thy blessed Son-
Teach us to say, with Jesus,
"Thy will, not ours, be done!"

REQUIEM.

W. H. BURLEIGH.

THE strife is o'er-Death's seal is set
On ashy lip and marble brow;
'Tis o'er, though faintly lingers yet
Upon the cheek a life-like glow:
The feeble pulse hath throbbed its last,
The aching head is laid at rest-

Another from our ranks hath passed,
The dearest and the loveliest !

Press down the eyelids-for the light,
Erewhile so radiant underneath,

Is

gone forever from our sight,

And darkened by the spoiler, Death:
Press down the eyelids-who can bear
To look beneath their fringed fold?
And softly part the silken hair
Upon the brow so deathly cold.

The strife is o'er! The loved of years,

To whom our yearning hearts had grown, Hath left us, with life's gathering fears To struggle darkly and alone;

Gone, with the wealth of love which dwelt,
Heart-kept, with holy thoughts and high-
Gone, as the clouds of evening melt
Beyond the dark and solemn sky.

Yet mourn her not-the voice of woe
Befits not this, her triumph-hour;
Let Sorrow's tears no longer flow,
For life eternal is her dower!
Freed from the earth's corrupt control,

The trials of a world like this,

Joy! for her disembodied soul

Drinks at the fount of perfect bliss!

SONNET.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go,
Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door
None but the sexton knocks at any more,
Are they not sometimes with us yet below!
The longings of the soul would tell us so;
Although, so pure and fine their being's essence,
Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence;
Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow,
Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever
With great thoughts worthy of their high behests
Our souls are filled, those bright ones with us be,
As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests :-
O, let us live so worthily, that never
We may be far from that blest company!

THE DEAD.

SHE lieth on her flower-strown bed, as if a slumber deep

Its balm upon her senses shed, but ah! it is not

sleep!

Her heart knows now no feverish throb-she hear eth not the sound

Of the mournful sighs and heavy sobs of weeping friends around.