A MOTHER'S LAMENT OVER HER DEAD IN.

FANT.

How can I weep? the tear of pain
Thy placid beauty would profane,
Darken thy cheek's unsullied snow,
And wet the white rose on thy brow.
How can I sigh! the breathing deep,
My baby, might disturb thy sleep;
And thou, with that unclouded smile,
Wouldst seem rebuking me the while.
How can I grieve, when all around
I hear a sweet unearthly sound?
The waving of my cherub's wings,
The hymn my infant-angel sings.
Yet lovely, tranquil as thou art,
It was so cruel to depart,
To close on me thy laughing eye,
Unclasp thy little arms, and die!

But one hath whisper'd, Love! to thee,
"Suffer my child to come to me."
Then, Saviour! meekly I resign
My baby, now for ever thine.

ANONYMOUS.

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT. AND this is death! how cold and still,

And yet how lovely it appears! Too cold to let the gazer smile,

And yet too beautiful for tears. The sparkling eye no more is bright,

The cheek hath lost its roselike red; And yet it is with strange delight

I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,

Half shaded by the silken hair, That never look'd so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there, I wonder not that grief should swell So wildly upward in the breast, And that strong passion once rebel, That need not, cannot be suppress'd.

I wonder not that parents' eyes

In gazing thus grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn; The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? that deep repose

Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose,

Those eyes shall never weep again. For think not that the blushing flower

Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'T was made to gild an angel's bower

Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly,
I see thee, like a new-born star,

Move up thy pathway in the sky: The star hath rays serene and bright,

But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfading and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its noonday storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!

Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet

Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last,

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-farewell. W. B. PEABODY.

REMEMBERED MUSIC,

THE father sat and watch'd his boy,
With all a father's woe;

Fled was the rosy light of joy,

And faded his young brow;
Dark shades were gathering o'er its grace,
And death was stamp'd on that sweet face.

And yet he linger'd still-at fits,
A brief reviving beam,
In melancholy beauty, flits
Across his cheek, that gleam
Deceives the father's throbbing heart,
To think perchance they may not part.

What soothes the little sufferer now?

Ah! music pours its strain,-
With smiles his dying features glow,
The child forgets his pain!
And his small feeble hand, with care,
Beats time to his own favourite air..
It play'd that simple careless tune,
While numbers pass'd it by ;
But ever, as those notes begun,

His pale cheek flush'd with joy;
And his bright eye his father's sought,
With all its childish pleasure fraught.

The organ past—and all forgot
The music fled away;

But the young sufferer knew the spot,
And the accustom'd day;

And ever, as it took its round,

His heart was soothed with that sweet sound.

But ah! glad strains, and tender cares,
From death may never save;

Soon torn from all sweet sounds, he shares,
The silence of the grave;

And, with a cold, and breaking heart,
The father sees his child depart.

He takes him to his tomb-and then,
All steep'd in speechless woe;
Returns unto his home again,

But not one tear will flow:
The lonely room-the vacant seat,
His eyes in silent stupor meet.

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What stirs him from his deep despair,
What wakens all his heart?
It plays again-that simple air-
And tears like rain-drops start

In every note-in every tone,
He feels his child again his own.

And thoughts of tenderness and love
Creep softly o'er his grief,
And draw his spirit far above

A world so sad and brief;
The airs of heaven are in his ear-
His child in angel-light is near!

MISS ROSCOE.

THE CHRISTIAN'S JOY AMIDST SUFFERINGS.

THE children of God are not called to so sad a life as the world imagines; besides what is laid up for them in heaven, they have, even here, their rejoicings and songs in their distresses, as those prisoners had their psalms even at midnight, after their stripes, and in their chains, before they knew of a sudden deliverance. (Acts xvi. 25.) True, there may be a darkness within, clouding all the matter of their joy, but even that darkness is the seed-time of after-joy light is sown in that darkness, and shall spring up; and not only shall they have a rich crop at full harvest, but even some first fruits of it here, in pledge of the harvest.

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And this they ought to expect, and to seek after with minds humble and submissive as to the measure and time of it, that they may be partakers of spiritual joy, and may by it be enabled to go patiently, yea, cheerfully, through the tribulations and temptations that lie in their way homeward. And for this end they ought to endeavour after a more clear discerning of their interest in Christ, that they may know they partake of Him and 20,