I've lost my little May at last!

She perished in the spring,
When earliest flowers began to bud,
And earliest birds to sing;
I laid her in a country grave,
A rural, soft retreat :

A marble tablet at her head,
And violets at her feet.

I would that she were back again,
In all her childish bloom;
My joy and hope have followed her,
My heart is in the tomb !

I know that she is gone away,
I know that she is fled;
I miss her everywhere, and yet
I cannot make her dead!

I wake the children up at dawn,

And say a simple prayer,

And draw them round the morning meal,
But one is wanting there!

I see a little chair apart,
A little pinafore,

And memory fills the vacancy,

As time will never more!

I sit within my room and write,
The lone and weary hours,
And miss the little maid again
Among the window flowers;
And miss her with the toys beside
My desk, in silent play;

And then I turn and look for her,
But she has flown away.

I drop my idle pen and hark,

And catch the faintest sound; She must be playing hide-and-seek In shady nooks around;

She 'll come and climb my chair again, And peep my shoulder o'er;

I hear a stifled laugh — but no,

She cometh never more!

I waited only yesternight,
The evening service read,
And lingered for my idol's kiss,

Before she went to bed;

Forgetting she had gone before,

In slumbers soft and sweet: A monument above her head, And violets at her feet!

R. H. STODDARD.

LINKS IN THE HEAVENLY CHAIN.

THERE is something pleasing in this fact: that every infant that you lose is a link that binds you to the grave on the one hand, and a link also that binds you to eternity on the other. A portion of yourself has taken possession of the tomb, to remind you that you must lie down there. A soul that was related to yourself has taken possession of eternity, to remind you that you must enter there. Our bodies are, through our infants, in communion with the dust; and our spirits, through theirs, with the everlasting throne. We are so disposed to strike our roots into this fading and fainting earth, that it becomes mercy on the part of God to send those chastisements, which loosen our affections from a world doomed to flame. Each infant that we lose is a tie (holy and happy truth!) less to bind us to this world, and a tie more to bind our hearts to that better world where our infants have preceded us. It is thus God gradually loosens the tree before it falls. Death thus loses half its pain before it overtakes us. Happy truth, if we realize it! Happy lesson, if we feel it!

Good and gracious is that Father, who thus preaches to His people from the infant's bier, when they will not learn the lesson which they need from His ambassadors in the pulpit!

THE MINISTERING ANGEL.

MOTHER, has the dove that nestled
Lovingly upon thy breast,
Folded up his little pinion,

And in darkness gone to rest?
Nay, the grave is dark and dreary,
But the lost one is not there;
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper,
Floating on the ambient air?
It is near thee, gentle mother,
Near thee at the evening hour;
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr,

And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing,

Low thou bendest thee in prayer,
And thy heart feels nearest heaven,
Then thy angel babe is there!

MRS. EMILY JUDSON

THE OPEN WINDOW.

THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness Where hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;

But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!