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-But Providence, that gives and takes away,
By his own law, is merciful and just;
Time wants not power to soften all regrets,
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears
Fail not to spring from either parent's eye,
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,
Yet, this departed little one, too long
The innocent trouble of their quiet, sleeps
In what may now be called, a peaceful grave.


WHAT could have lured her
So early from her mother's breast to flee?
No sickening sights of sorrow had she seen,
That could affright her thence! surely it was
Some angel's whisper, breathed in heavenly tone,
That told her of the joys, before the throne
Of God, enjoy'd by those who, well escaped
From this earth's bondage, walk in bliss supreme,
And snow-white raiment there;-where only joy,
Perfect, can e'er be found,-where, (through
atoning blood

Already shed for,) for Jesus' sake,
She should be welcome as yon aged saint
Just now in heaven, from arduous duties done,
Safely arrived,-that thousands gladly there
Would hail her, "Younger sister, welcome home!"
Would crowd around her, and, with kisses sweet,
And love's caresses, and some new-made song,
Lead her into the presence of her God,
To do her homage, and receive her crown ;-
That they would vic, to teach her how to soar,

On her new wings, through regions infinite,
Bearing the messages of God Most High ;-
That she should learn, with holy skill, to make
Celestial harmony from golden harps,
And sing that lovely song, "Worthy the Lamb!"
With emphasis beyond th' archangel's power.
All this was breathed in accents, far more sweet
Than any earthly sounds she yet had heard;
And my poor troubled spirit wonders not
That from her mother's bosom she could flee,
Such invitation given, so winningly;
That she should close on earthly things her eye,
And to her Saviour's presence gladly fly.



WHERE the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest-river,

Sleeps our babe alone.

England's field-flowers may not deck his grave, Cypress-shadows o'er him darkly wave.

Woods unknown receive him,
'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child:

And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.

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Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the Beautiful to Heaven.

And to her who bore him, Her who long must weep, Yet shall heaven restore him, From his pale, sweet sleep! Those blue eyes of love and peace again Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain:

Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river,

Earth to earth alone!

God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile's sorrow,
From the wanderer's dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;

Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.

Now let Thought behold him
With his angel look,

Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took

Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast, When his voice their tender meekness bless'd.

Turn thee, now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh! turn!
Linger not, young brother,

Here to dream and mourn :
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!



No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed one!
Whose all of life, a rosy ray,
Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower

That never felt a storm!

The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light,
That Heaven benignly call'd thee hence,
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O'er thy sweet innocence;

And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness!

Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain'd,
Vision of beauty! fair as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain'd
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise,
To dim thy glory in the skies.

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 The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath,
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,

And bear from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of Heaven?


THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child,
-When the fawn awakes 'midst the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?
-Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see-
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark-
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest

Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee,

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