THE INFANT SPIRIT'S PRAYER.

Addressed to a lady who had lost her Husband and Child.

SILENCE filled the courts of heaven, hushed were angel harp and tone,

While a little new-born spirit knelt before the eternal throne.

As his small white hands were lifted, clasped as if in earnest prayer,

And his voice in low, sweet murmurs rose like music on the air.

Light from the full fount of glory on his robes of whiteness glistened,

And the bright-winged seraphs round him bowed their radiant heads and listened.

"Lord, from thy world of glory here,
My heart turns fondly to another:
O Lord, our God! the Comforter,
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!
Many sorrows hast thou sent her,
Meekly hath she drained the cup,
And the jewels thou hast lent her,
Unrepining, yielded up:

Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

"Earth is growing lonely round her,
Friend and lover hast thou taken;
Let her not, though clouds surround her,
Feel herself by Thee forsaken.
Let her think, while faint and weary,
We are waiting for her here;

Let each thought that makes earth dreary
Make the thought of heaven more dear.

"Saviour, Thou, in nature human,
Dwelt on earth a little child,
Pillowed on the breast of woman,
Blessed Mary, undefiled.

Thou, who from thy cross of suffering
Viewed thy mother's tearful face,
And bequeathed her to thy loved one,
Bidding him to fill thy place,
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

"Thou, who, from the heavens descending, Tears, and woes, and suffering won; Thou, who, nature's laws suspending,

Gave the widow back her son;

Thou, who at the grave of Lazarus
Wept with those who wept their dead;
Thou, who once in mortal anguish

Bowed thine own anointed head,
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

The dove-like murmer died away upon the

evening air,

Yet still the little suppliant knelt, with hands still clasped in prayer;

Still were the softly-pleading eyes turned to the sapphire throne,

While angel harp and angel voice rang out in mingling tone.

And as the choral numbers swelled by angel voices given,

High, loud and clear the anthem rolled through all the courts of heaven.

"He is the widow's God," it said, "who spared not his own Son."

The infant spirit bowed its head, -
O God, be done!"

66

--

Thy will,

A MEMORY.

mind

HER memory still within my
Retains its sweetest power;
It is the perfume left behind
That whispers of the flower.

MRS. WELBY.

THE CROCUS.

BENEATH the sunny autumn sky,
With gold leaves dropping round,
We sought, my little friend and I,
The consecrated ground,
Where calm beneath the holy cross,
O'ershadowed by sweet skies,
Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,
Those blue, unclouded eyes.

Around the soft green swelling mound
We scooped the earth away,
And buried deep the crocus bulbs
Against a coming day.

"These roots are dry, and brown, and sere, Why plant them here?" he said,

"To leave them all the winter long So desolate and dead."

"Dear child, within each sere dead form

There sleeps a living flower,

And angel-like it shall arise
In spring's returning hour."

Ah, deeper down

cold, dark, and chill,

We buried our heart's flower,

But angel-like shall he arise

In spring's immortal hour.

In blue and yellow from its grave
Springs up the crocus fair,

And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,

Those sunny waves of hair. Not for a fading summer's morn,

Not for a fleeting hour,

But for an endless age of bliss,

Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

MRS. H. B. STOWE.

A DIRGE.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit! rest thee now;
Even while with us thy footstep trod
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high !—
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But oh! a brighter home than ours

In heaven is now thine own.

FELICIA HEMANS.