WHY CHILDREN DIE.

I HAVE seen persons who gather from the parterre their choicest flowers, just as they begin to open into full bloom and fragrance, lest some passer-by should tear them from the bush and destroy them. Does not God sometimes gather into heaven young and innocent children for the same reason-lest some rude hand may despoil them of their beauty?

THE DYING CHILD.

MOTHER, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping; Let me repose upon thy bosom seek;

But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.

Here it is cold; the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel children smiling gladly,

When from my weary eyes I shut the light.

Mother, one steals beside me now! and listen;
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?

See how his white wings beautifully glisten!
Surely those wings were given him by our Lord!

G

Green, gold, and red are floating all around me; These are the flowers the angel scattereth: Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me? Or, mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine? Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing; I will, dear mother, will be always thine! 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 ANDERSEN.

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 line that held his pretty kite,

His bow, his cup and ball,—

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 sympathising 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.

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.