I have watched thee from thine infancy
With tenderness, but now

The dews of death are falling fast
Upon thy mother's brow.

Thou wast a lovely babe when first
Thine infant smiles were given,
To cheer thy mother's widowed heart,
A precious gift from heaven.
I used to gaze upon thy face,
Upon thy open brow,

And trace resemblance to him

Who is in glory now.

Unconsciously my comforter,

Before thy tongue could speak,
Thy baby-fingers used to wipe
The tear-drop off my cheek;
And many an hour of lonely grief
Thy playfulness beguiled,
With bursts of merry laughter--
For thou wast a happy child.

I heard thy little footsteps come
Each morning to my door,
And then I felt as if my heart
Was lighter than before.
I used to teach thy cherub lips
To lisp a simple prayer ;
I spake to thee of holy things,
And surely God was there.

Thy childhood passed, and then I saw
Thy bud of promise burst;
Expanded to a full blown flower,

Fresh as it was at first;

Children.

But the broad leaf that sheathed it once

Has all too narrow grown,

And it must face the storm and wind

Unsheltered and alone.

Listen, my child, thou knowest well
The path thy father trod;
Oh, follow in thy father's steps,

And trust thy father's God:
He will support thee, He will guide
Thine ignorance and youth-

To thee, as now to me, he will
Be faithfulness and truth.

I hear my Saviour calling me,
I know it is in love;
His angels wait to bear me

To his blessed home above;
I go with joy at his command,
For death is gain to me;
And now, in faithfulness, O Lord,
I cast my child on thee.

"THE DOVE ON THE CROSS."

283

OME to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,

But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,—

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing

In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads

That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

LONGFELLOW,

The Only Child.

CHILD'S TALENT.

OD intrusts to all

Talents, few or many;

None so young or small

That they have not any.

Though the great and wise

Have a greater number,

Yet my one I prize,

And it must not slumber.

God will surely ask,

Ere I enter heaven,

Have I done the task

Which to me was given.

Little drops of rain

Bring the springing flowers,

And I may attain

Much by little powers.

Every little mite,

Every little measure,

Helps to spread the light,

Helps to swell the treasure.

THE ONLY CHILD.

WOULD I had a sister,

For I feel myself alone-
A silent lute without a hand

To wake its soothing tone;

ANON.

285

A bird without its tender mate,
A bough wrenched from a tree:
Yet these and all things desolate
Are types, alas! of me;
I cannot laugh as others laugh,
With none to share my mirth;
I pine alone, for in my mind
No pleasant thoughts have birth,
I've often turned away to weep,
Where others sat and smiled;

For oh, it is a cheerless thing
To be an only child!

I have a gentle mother,
She is very kind to me;

A father, whose delight is still
My youthful form to see;

But yet they treat me as their child,

When o'er my form they bend;

But one I feel to want at once

The sister and the friend,
Such as I often meet in those
Who seem so light and glad,
Whose very mirth and cheerfulness,
It is that makes me sad.

I love my parents, who so oft

My sorrows have beguiled;
But still it seems a cheerless thing

To be an only child !

I wish I had a sister

Who could kneel with me in prayer, Whose little griefs I could assuage,

With whom my joys to share;