Do not sigh thus, — it marreth my reposing; And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!

Oh, I am tired,

- my weary eyes are closing;

Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

FROM THE DANISH OF ANDERSON.

THE PLAYTHINGS.

OH! mother, here's the very top

That brother used to spin,

--

The vase with seeds I've seen him drop

To call our robin in,

The slate on which he learned to write,

His feather, cap, and all!

My dear, I'd put the things away,
Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play;
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks

The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks
Within a mother's breast.

H. F. GOULD.

THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES.

I SOUGHT at twilight's pensive hour
The path which mourners tread,
Where many a marble stone reveals
The city of the dead; -

The city of the dead, where all
From feverish toil repose,

While round their beds, the simple flower
In sweet profusion blows.

And there I marked a pleasant spot
Enclosed with tender care,

Where side by side three infants lay,

The only tenants there;

Nor weed, nor bramble raised its head
To mar the hallowed scene,
And 't was a mother's tears, methought,
Which kept that turf so green.

The eldest was a gentle girl,
She sunk as rose-buds fall,

And then two little brothers came,

They were their parents' all, —

Their parents' all!—and ah, how oft
The moan of sickness rose,

Before, within these narrow mounds,

They found a long repose.

Their cradle-sports beside the hearth,
At winter's eve, are o'er;

Their tuneful tones, so full of mirth,
Delight the ear no more :—
Yet still the thrilling echo lives,
And many a lisping word
Is treasured in affection's heart,
By grieving memory stirred.

Three little graves! - Three little graves!

Come hither ye who see

Your blooming babes around you smile,

A blissful company,

And of those childless parents think,

With sympathizing pain,

And soothe them with a Saviour's words,

"Your dead shall rise again."

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY

OUR LAMBS.

THE tender Shepherd beckoningly

Our Lambs doth hold,

That we may take our own when He
Makes up the fold.

GERALD MASSEY.

THE SERAPH CHILD.

The following lines were written by DANIEL WEBSTER in 1825, on the death of a son three years of age, and were enclosed in a letter to his wife:

My son, thou wast my heart's delight,

Thy morn of life was gay and cheery; That morn has rushed to sudden night, Thy father's house is sad and dreary.

I held thee on my knee, my son !

And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping; But ah! thy little day is done,

Thou 'rt with my angel sister sleeping.

The staff on which my years should lean

Is broken, ere those years come o'er me: My funeral rites thou should'st have seen, But thou art in thy tomb before me.

Thou rearest to me no filial stone,

No parent's grave with tears beholdest;

Thou art my ancestor, my son !

And stand'st in Heaven's account the oldest.

On earth my lot was soonest cast,

Thy generation after mine; Thou hast thy predecessor past; Earlier eternity is thine.

I should have set before thine eyes

The road to heaven, and showed it clear; But thou untaught spring'st to the skies, And leav'st thy teacher lingering here.

Sweet seraph, I would learn of thee,
And hasten to partake thy bliss!
And oh! to thy world welcome me,
As first I welcomed thee to this.

Dear angel, thou art safe in Heaven ;
No prayer for thee need more be made;
Oh! let thy prayer for those be given
Who oft have blessed thy infant head.

My father! I beheld thee born,

And led thy tottering steps with care; Before me risen to heaven's bright morn, My son ! my father! guide me there.

EPITAPH.

ERE sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

COLERIDGE.