If earnest prayer could bring him back,
I would not plead for his returning,
Where dimly, in the midnight black,
Hope's star is burning—

Where Sorrow, with a trembling hand,
The death-dimmed eye of Beauty closes,
And Love goes mourning, through the land,
For her lost roses.

W. H. C. HOSMER.

THE FIRST-BORN.

WE laid thee down in sinless rest, and from thine infant brow

Culled one soft lock of radiant hair-our only solace now,

Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers, not more fair and sweet;

Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,

With all the beauty of thy cheek-the sunshine of thy brow,

They never can replace the bud our early fondness

nurst,

They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee -the first!

The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring

Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's delightful spring;

Of fervid feelings passed away-those early seeds of bliss,

That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world

as this!

My sweet one, oh! my sweet one, my fairest,

my first!

and

When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through the gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,

With not a taint of mortal life, except the mortal

God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst;

And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my fairest, and

my

first!

ALARIC A. WATTS.

H

THINK THAT YOUR BABE IS THERE.

YE who mourn,

Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes
That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide
Of alienated joy, can ye not trust

Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care
Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope,
When a few wasting years their course have run,
Το go to him, though he no more on earth
Returns to you?

And when glad faith doth catch

Some echo of celestial harmonies,

Archangels' praises, with the high response

Of cherubim and seraphim, O think-

Your babe is there!

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

"I SHALL GO TO HIM, BUT HE SHALL NOT RETURN TO ME."

WHILE sickness rent thine infant frame,
Before our God we wept and prayed;
But when His heavenly summons came,
Fond nature struggled and obeyed.

We laid thee in thy early rest,

And changed the burden of our prayer : May He, who took thee to the blest,

But make thee our forerunner there!

THE ONLY CHILD.

PRETTY boy!

He was my only child; how fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him!
'T was like a marble slumber, and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed
I thought my heart was breaking; ye I lived,
But I am weary now.

BARRY CORNWALL,

SOWING IN TEARS.

STRAIGHT and still the baby lies,
No more smiling in his eyes,
Neither tears nor wailing cries.

Smiles and tears alike are done:
He has need of neither one-
Only I must weep alone.

Tiny fingers, all too slight,
Hold within their grasping tight
Waxen berries scarce more white.

Nights and days of weary pain,
I have held them close-in vain ;
Now I never shall again.

Crossed upon a silent breast,
By no suffering distressed,
Here they lie in marble rest.

They shall ne'er unfolded be,
Never more in agony
Cling so pleadingly to me.

Never! O, the hopeless sound
To my heart, so closely wound
All his little being round!

I forget the shining crown,
Glad exchange for cross laid down,
Now his baby brows upon.

Yearning sore, I only know
I am very full of woe-
And I want my dear one so!

Selfish heart, that thou shouldst
So unworthy of the love

Which thine idol doth remove !

prove