ON THE DEATH OF A SON.

I NEVER trusted to have lived

To bid farewell to thee, And almost said, in agony, It ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the

grave

My weary head shouldst lay, And live, beloved, when I was gone, For many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried

Thy dying eyes to close;

And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,

With pain and grief oppressed,
And thou wast with the sainted,
Where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now;
But let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well,

Is earlier blessed than mine;
My faith may darken as it will,
I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life

Can never reach thee more.

W. B. O. PEABODY.

THE LITTLE COFFIN.

'Twas a tiny, rosewood thing,
Ebon bound, and glittering
With its stars of silver white,
Silver tablet, blank and bright,
Downy pillowed, satin lined,
That I, loitering, chanced to find
Mid the dust, and scent and gloom
Of the undertaker's room,
Waiting, empty-ah! for whom?

Ah! what love-watched cradle bed
Keeps to-night the nestling head,
Or on what soft, pillowing breast
Is the cherub form at rest,
That ere long, with darkened eye,
Sleeping to no lullaby,

Whitely robed, and still, and cold,
Pale flowers slipping from its hold,
Shall this dainty couch enfold?

Ah! what bitter tears shall stain All this satin sheet like rain, And what towering hopes be hid 'Neath this tiny coffin lid, Scarcely large enough to bear Little words that must be there,

Little words, cut deep and true,
Bleeding mothers' hearts anew
Sweet, pet name, and " AGED TWO!"

Oh! can sorrow's hovering plume,
Round our pathway cast a gloom,
Chill and darksome as the shade
By an infant's coffin made?
From our arms an angel flies,
And our startled, dazzled eyes,
Weeping round its vacant place,
Cannot rise its path to trace,
Cannot see the angel face!

MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK.

THE LILY.

SOME, a similitude to childhood see,
In vines which cling to a deep-rooted tree;
Some, in the rosebud infancy perceive,
The bloom of beauty ushered from its leaves;
The vine a serpent's covert may enclose,

And thorns, deep piercing, lie beneath the rose.
She was the lily, type of purity,

Swept by death's tide to glory's waveless sea, And then replanted by an angel hand,

Bloomed in the gardens of the upper land.

JOHN J. MORRIS.

THE INFANT HOST IN HEAVEN

In view of the character of God, the priesthood of Jesus Christ, and the slight intimations of holy writ, we may rest in a comfortable assurance that all departed infants are made spiritually and forever alive; that "As in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive." "There is hope in their end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again to their own border.” "Moreover, your little ones, which ye said should be a prey, and your children, which in that day had no knowledge between good and evil, they shall go in thither, and unto them will I give it, and they shall possess it."

Our thoughts mount at once, delightfully and gratefully, to our Father's house, where are many mansions; and we understand better why in that blissful abode there is such an exceeding great multitude, which no man can number. "For of such of such more numerously than all others—is the kingdom of God." "These were redeemed from among men, being the first fruits unto God and the Lamb." It is estimated that, of all born into this world, one half leave it in infancy. If such be the case, then, according to a computation which makes the whole

race thus far to number twenty-eight thousand millions, there would be at this moment fourteen thousand millions in heaven who were infants when they went there. Whatever may be

thought of the probable correctness of this estimate, the field thus opened for joyful contemplation is immense, and as enrapturing as immense. How many times must we multiply the present population of our globe to make it equal the host which has already gone to the regions of bliss! How many more will at last be found to be saved than lost! How will the glory of God shine in the recovery by the second Adam, so much more ample than the ruin by the first! How is Satan baffled in his most malicious plans, and our Redeemer divinely victorious!

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Alas, for Herod! not for the martyrs of Bethlehem! alas, for the persecuting pontiffs and monarchs! not for their infant victims; alas, for the mother on the banks of the Ganges! not for her offspring afloat on its waters; — alas, for them, that they did not themselves perish in earliest infancy! "Is it well with the child? It is well." "I shall go to him;" and I shall there find him a cherub, his voice joining clear and sweet in the choir of heaven; all his earthly