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And every spring in that old tree
The song-birds build their nests,
And the children of our village say
The wild-flowers are the last that fade,
There is no stone raised there to tell
We miss her in the hour of joy,
We miss her in the hour of woe,
Even when she erred, we could not chide,
She always mourned so much-and sued
She was too pure for earthly love-
WEEP NOT FOR HER!
WEEP not for her! her span was like the sky,
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die,
Like long-link'd shadeless months of polar light Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While echo answers from the flowery brake, Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! she died in early youth,
Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark The play-mates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. Translated by her God with spirit shriven, She pass'd, as 't were on smiles, from earth to
Weep not for her! It was not her's to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years, 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, To wander sad down age's vale of tears, As whirl the wither'd leaves from friendship's tree, And on earth's wintry world alone to be; Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise, All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes, Victorious over death, to her appears The vista'd joys of heaven's eternal years Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts soft as the scent of flowers, Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, Pure as the moonlight of an autumn night: Weep not for her!
Weep not for her! There is no cause of woe,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back. So when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee on: Weep not for her!
D. M. MOIR.
ON THE LOSS OF A CHILD.
I SINCERELY Sympathize with you in the loss of your child; but, my dear friend, do not suffer your spirits to sink. Remember the tenure on which all human enjoyments are held, the wisdom and sovereignty of their great Author, and the gracious promise afforded to true Christians, that "all things shall work together for good, to them that love him."
Remember, also, the many blessings with which a kind Providence still indulges you. Ought you not to rejoice, that your affectionate companion in life is spared; and that, though your child is snatched from your embraces, he has escaped from a world of sin and sorrow? The stamp of immortality is placed on his happiness, and he is encircled by the arms of a compassionate Redeemer. Had he been permitted to live, and you had witnessed the loss of his virtue, you might have been reserved to suffer still severer pangs. A most excellent family, in our congregation, are now melancholy spectators of a son dying, at nineteen years of age, by inches, a victim to his vices. They have frequently regretted he did not die several years since, when his life was nearly despaired of in a severe fever. "Who knoweth what is good for a man all the days of this his vain life, which he spends as a shadow ?"
TO A DYING INFANT.
SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
But quiet with the dead.
Yes! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be;
Would fain lie down with thee.
Flee, little tender nursling;
Peace! peace! the little bosom
Labours with shortening breathPeace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh
These are the damps of death.
I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee!
Baby! thou seem'st to me.
Mount up, immortal essence!
How beautiful thou art!
Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over,
Thy little mouth half open,