DIRGE OF A CHILD. No bitter tears for thee be shed, Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blushed into dawn, and passed away. Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power The sun-beam's smile, the zephyr's breath, Thou wert so like a form of light, That Heaven benignly called thee hence Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O'er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Oh, hadst thou still on earth remained, Now not a sullying breath can rise We rear no marble o'er thy tomb, No sculptured image there shall mourn ; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes in visions blest, And bear from thine own world of rest, What form more lovely could be given MRS HEMANS. NOT for the babe that sleepeth here For those who innocence outlive. THE LENT JEWELS. IN schools of wisdom all the day was spent: wife upon the And two fair children who consoled his life. were; But having given them in my charge, this friend What think you? Shall I freely yield them back, And with no murmuring, so henceforth to lack Those gems myself, which I had learned to see Almost as mine forever, mine in fee?” "What question can be here? Your own true heart Must needs advise you of the only part: That may be claimed again which was but lent, "Good is the word," she answered; "may we now And ever more that it is good allow!" And, rising, to an inner chamber led, And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed, Two children pale! and he the jewels knew, Which God had lent him, and resumed anew. R. C. TRENCH. AN INFANT'S EPITAPH. BENEATH this stone an infant lies, When the archangel's trump shall blow, And souls to bodies join, Millions will wish their lives below Had been as short as thine. O MOURN NOT, FOND MOTHER. O MOURN not, fond mother, the joys that depart, There is comfort and peace for the stricken in heart; God has taken the spirit that basked in thy love, "The beautiful angels" have borne it above. The plant that you reared to smile on earth's gloom, Has fastened its roots in the soil of the tomb; The gem that you wore with pride on your breast, Adorns with its light the land of the blest; The rose still is fragrant, though broke from the stem, The setting is ruined, but safe is the gem. Then gird thee to labor, to trial and love, heaven. REV. S. F. SMITH. |