The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked ;-he is not there!

He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And on his angel brow

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!
Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'T will be our heaven to find that-he is there!

JOHN PIERPONT.

The Alpine Shepherd.

WH

HEN on my ear your loss was knelled,
And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory welled

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst;

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as cooling dew,

To steal some fever from yo ir grief.

THE ALPINE SHEPHERD.

After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round with us to weep
The little spirit's swift remove-
This story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care,
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb

To any shelves of pasture green

That hang along the mountain side, Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams glide.

But naught can lure the timid things,

The steep and rugged path to try,

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go,

When, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair,

More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by nature breathed,
Blew on me as the south wind free,
O'er frozen brooks that flow, unsheathed
From icy thraldom, to the sea.

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A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lambs asleep-
And like the murmur of the sea
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, “Arise, and follow me!"

MARIA LOWELL.

Only a Curl.

`RIENDS of faces unknown, and a land

Unvisited over the sea,

Who tell me how lonely you stand
With a single gold curl in the hand,
Held up to be looked at by me,—

While you ask me to ponder, and say
What a father and mother can do
With the bright fellow-locks put away,
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay,
Where the violets press nearer than you,→

Shall I speak like a poet, or run

Into weak woman's tears for relief?

Oh, children-I never lost one;

Yet my arm's round my own little son,
And Love knows the secret of grief.

And I feel what it must be and is,
When God draws a new angel so,
Through the house of a man up to His,
With a murmur of music you miss,

And a rapture of light you forego:

ONLY A CURL.

How you think, staring on at the door

Where the face of your angel flashed in,
That its brightness, familiar before,
Burns off from you ever the more

For the dark of your sorrow and sin.

"God lent him and takes him," you sigh.
Nay, there let me break with your pain:
God's generous in giving, say I,
And the thing which he gives, I deny
That he ever can take back again.

He gives what he gives: I appeal

To all who bear babes; in the hour
When the veil of the body we feel
Rent around us-while torments reveal

The motherhood's advent in power,

And the babe cries-has each of us known
By apocalypse-God being there
Full in nature-the child is our own,

Life of life, love of love, moan of moan,

Through all changes, all times, everywhere,

He's ours, and forever. Believe,

O father!-O mother, look back
To the first love's assurance. To give
Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive,
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.

He gives what he gives. Be content!
He resumes nothing given-be sure!
God lend? Where the usurers lent
In his temple, indignant he went,

And scourged away all those impure.

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He lends not, but gives to the end,
As he loves to the end. If it seem
That he draws back a gift, comprehend
'Tis to add to it, rather, amend,

And finish it up to your dream,—

Or keep, as a mother may, toys

Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys, Kept over their heads on the shelf.

So look up, friends! you who indeed

Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are-speed

Where they loiter, persist where they cease.

You know how one angel smiles there,-
Then, courage. 'Tis easy for you

To be drawn by a single gold hair

Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair
To the safe place above us. Adieu.

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING

Spinning of the Shroud.

LOWLY ravel, threads of doom;

SLO

Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn;

Death's inexorable gloom

Stretches like the frozen tarn

Never thawed by sunbeams kind,
Ruffled ne'er by wave or wind;

Man beholds it and is still,
Daunted by its mortal chill;
Thither haste my helpless feet,

While I spin my winding-sheet!