"God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified!

"I look around and see The evil ways of men ;

And oh! beloved child!

I'm more than reconciled

To thy departure then.

"The little arms that clasped meThe innocent lips that prest,Would they have been as pure

Till now, as when of yore

I lulled thee on my breast?

"Now (like a dew-drop shrined

Within a crystal stone)

Thou 'rt safe in heaven, my dove!

Safe with the Source of Love,

The Everlasting One.

"And when the hour arrives From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await

The first at Heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me."

"WHERE WOULD I REST?"

C. F. HOFFMAN.

UNDER old boughs, where moist the livelong sum

mer

The moss is green, and springy to your tread, When you, my friend, shall be an often comer To pierce the thicket, seeking for my bed:

For thickets heavy all around should screen it

From careless gazer that might wander near, Nor even to him who by some chance had seen it, Would I have aught to catch his eye, appear.

One lonely stem, a trunk those old boughs lifting, Should mark the spot; and, haply, new thrift

Owe

To that which upward through its sap was drift

ing

From what lay mouldering round its roots be

low.

There my freed spirit with the dawn's first gleaming

Would come to revel round the dancing spray; There would it linger with the day's last beam

ing,

To watch thy footsteps thither track their way.

The quivering leaf should whisper in that hour
Things that for thee alone would have a sound,
And parting boughs my spirit-glances shower
In gleams of light upon the mossy ground.

There, when long years and all thy journeyings

over,

Loosed from this world thyself to join the free, Thou too wouldst come to rest beside thy lover In that sweet cell beneath our Trysting-Tree.

TO AN INFANT.

WILLIAM B. WALTER.

AND art thou here, sweet boy, among
The crowds that come this world to throng?
The loveliest dream of waking life!

Hope of the bosom's secret strife!

Emblem of all the heart can love!

Vision of all that 's bright above!
Pledge, promise of remembered years!
Seal of pure souls, yet bought with tears!

Hail! child of love!-I linger yet
Around thy couch, where slumber sweet
Hangs on thine eyelids' living shroud;
And thoughts and dreamings thickly crowd

Upon the mind like gleams of light

Which sweep along the darksome night,
Lurid and strange, all fearful sent
In flashings o'er the firmament!

O! wake not from that tranquil sleep!
Too soon 't will break, and thou shalt weep;
Such is thy destiny and doom,

O'er this long past and long to come;

Earth's mockery, guilt and nameless woe; The pangs which thou canst only know; All crowded in a little span,

The being of the creature Man!

Ah! little deemest thou, my child,

The way of life is dark and wild;
Its sunshine, but a light whose play
Serves but to dazzle and betray;
Weary and long-its end, the tomb,
Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom!
That resting-place of things which live,
The goal of all that earth can give!

It may be that the dreams of fame,
Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name,
Shall lure thee to the field of blood;
There, like a god, war's fiery flood
May bear thee on! while far above,
Thy crimson banners proudly move,

Like the red clouds which skirt the sun,
When the fierce tempest-day is done!

Or lead thee to a cloistered cell,
Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell;
The midnight lamp and brow of care;
The frozen heart that mocks despair;
Consumption's fires to burn thy cheek;
The brain that throbs, but will not break;
The travail of the soul to gain

A name, and die-alas! in vain!

Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there,
Of this world's crimes; of many a snare
To catch the soul; of pleasures wild,
Friends false-foes dark-and hearts beguiled;
Of Passion's ministers who sway,

With iron sceptre, all who stray;

Of broken hearts-still loving on,

When all is lost, and changed, and gone

What is it that thou wilt not prove?

Power, Wealth, Dominion, Grandeur, Love-
All the soul's idols in their turn!

And find each false, yet wildly burn
To grasp at all-and love the cheat;
Smile, when the ravening vultures eat
Into thy very bosom's core,

And drink up that-which is not gore!