Within the darkened porch I stand-
Scarce knowing why, I linger long;
O, could I call thee back to me,
Bright bird of heaven, with sooth or song!

But no-the wayworn wretch shall pause
To bless the shelter of this door;
Kinsman and guest shall enter in,
But my lost darling, never more.

Yet, waiting on his gentle ghost,
From sorrow's void, so deep and dull,
Comes a faint breathing of delight,
A presence calm and beautiful.

I have him, not in outstretched arms,
I hold him, not with straining sight,
While in blue depths of quietude

Drops, like a star, my still " Good-night."

Thus, nightly, do I bow my head

To the unseen, eternal Force; Asking sweet pardon of my child,

For yielding him in death's divorce.

He turned away from childlike plays,
His baby toys he held in scorn;
He loved the forms of thought divine,

Woods, flowers, and fields of waving corn.

And then I knew my little one

Should by no vulgar love be taught;
But by the symbols God has given
To solemnize our common thought;

The mystic angels, three in one,
The circling serpent's faultless round,
And, in far glory dim, the Cross,

Where Love o'erleaps the human bound.

MRS. HOWE.

DEATH OF THE YOUNG.

OH! it is hard to take

The lesson that such deaths will teach,
But let no man reject it,

For it is one that all must learn,

And it is a mighty universal truth,

When death strikes down the innocent and young. For every fragile form from which he lets

The parting spirit free,

A hundred virtues rise,

In shapes of mercy, charity, and love,

To walk the world and bless it.
Of every tear

That sorrowing mortals shed on such green

graves,

Some good is born, some gentler nature comes.

DICKENS.

LINKS IN THE HEAVENLY CHAIN.

THERE is something pleasing in this fact: that every infant that you lose is a link that binds you to the grave on the one hand, and a link also that binds you to eternity on the other. A portion of yourself has taken possession of the tomb, to remind you that you must lie down there. A soul that was related to yourself has taken possession of eternity, to remind you that you must enter there. Our bodies are, through our infants, in communion with the dust; and our spirits, through theirs, with the everlasting throne. We are so disposed to strike our roots into this fading and fainting earth, that it becomes mercy on the part of God to send those chastisements, which loosen our affections from a world doomed to flame. Each infant that we lose is a tie (holy and happy truth!) less to bind us to this world, and a tie more to bind our hearts to that better world where our infants have preceded us. It is thus God gradually loosens the tree before it falls. Death thus loses half its pain before it overtakes us. Happy truth, if we realize it! Happy lesson, if we feel it!

Good and gracious is that Father, who thus preaches to His people from the infant's bier, when they will not learn the lesson which they need from His ambassadors in the pulpit!

THE MINISTERING ANGEL.

MOTHER, has the dove that nestled
Lovingly upon thy breast,
Folded up his little pinion,

And in darkness gone to rest?
Nay, the grave is dark and dreary,
But the lost one is not there;
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper,
Floating on the ambient air?
It is near thee, gentle mother,
Near thee at the evening hour;
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr,

And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing,

Low thou bendest thee in prayer,
And thy heart feels nearest heaven,
Then thy angel babe is there!

MRS. EMILY JUDSON

GOD SHIELD THEE, CHILDLESS MOTHER.

YOUNG mother! what can feeble friendship say, To soothe the anguish of this mournful day? They, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled,

Know how the living sorrow for the dead;

Each tutored voice, that seeks such grief to cheer,

Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear;
I've felt it all, -alas! too well I know

How vain all earthly power to hush thy woe!
God cheer thee, childless mother! 't is not given
For man to ward the blow that falls from heaven.

I've felt it all- as thou art feeling now;
Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow,
I've sat and watched by dying beauty's bed,
And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed;
I've gazed upon the sweet but pallid face,
And vainly tried some comfort there to trace ;
I've listened to the short and struggling breath;
I've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death;
Like thee, I've veiled my head in speechless
gloom,

And laid my first-born in the silent tomb.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.