And every spring in that old tree

The song-birds build their nests,
And wild-flowers blow on the soft green turf
Where my dead sister rests:

And the children of our village say
That on my sister's tomb

The wild-flowers are the last that fade,
And the first that ever bloom.

There is no stone raised there to tell
My sister's name and age,
For that dear name in every heart
Is carved on memory's page.

We miss her in the hour of joy,
For when all hearts were light,
There was no step so gay as hers,
No eyes so glad and bright.

We miss her in the hour of woe,
For then she tried to cheer,
And the soothing words of the pious child
Could dry the mourner's tear.

Even when she erred, we could not chide,
For though the fault was small,

She always mourned so much-and sued
For pardon from us all.

She was too pure for earthly love-
Strength to our hearts was given,
And we yielded her in her childhood's light,
To a brighter home in Heaven.

ANONYMOUS,

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,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seem'd the home of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant
dews.

Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees,
Weep not for her!

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,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

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 ?"

R. HALL.

TO A DYING INFANT.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But quiet with the dead.

Yes! with the quiet dead,

Baby, thy rest shall be;
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling;
Flee to thy place of rest!
There the first flower shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow
Shall fall upon thy breast.

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!
But never then wert thou,
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me.

Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit! haste, depart-
And is this death ?-dread thing!
If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over,
Like harebells wet with dew,
Already veil'd and hid
By the convulsed lid,
Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,
The soft lip quivering
As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose-leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.