The sun-beam's smile, the zephyr's breath, All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light,

That Heaven benignly called thee hence Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O'er thy sweet innocence :

And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art passed with all thy loveliness!

Oh, hadst thou still on earth remained,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stained
With passion or with grief!

Now not a sullying breath can rise

To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,

No sculptured image there shall mourn ;

Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

Such dwelling to adorn.

Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be

The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorned with nature's brightest wreath;

Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;

And oft upon the midnight air

Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose,

And bear from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes !

What form more lovely could be given
Than thine, as messenger of Heaven?

MRS. HEMANS.

NOT for the babe that sleepeth here
Thy tears bestow, thy sorrows give,-
Pass on, and weep with grief sincere
For those who innocence outlive.

THE LENT JEWELS.

In schools of wisdom all the day was spent,
His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,
With homeward thoughts which dwelt upon the
wife

And two fair children who consoled his life.
She, meeting at the threshold, led him in,
And, with these words preventing, did begin :-

:

"Ever rejoicing at your wished return,
Yet am I most so now; for since this morn
I have been much perplexed and sorely tried
Upon one point which you shall now decide.
Some years ago, a friend into my care

Some jewels gave-rich, precious gems they were;
But having given them in my charge, this friend
Did afterward nor come for them, nor send,
But left them in my keeping for so long,
That now it almost seems to me a wrong
That he should suddenly arrive to-day
To take those jewels, which he left, away.
What think you ? Shall I freely yield them back,
And with no murmuring,—so henceforth to lack
Those gems myself, which I had learned to see
Almost as mine for ever, mine in fee?"

"What question can be here? Your own true heart Must needs advise you of the only part:

That may be claimed again which was but lent,
And should be yielded with no discontent.

Nor surely can we find herein a wrong,
That it was left us to enjoy so long."

"Good is the word," she answered; "may we now

And ever more that it is good allow ! "

And, rising, to an inner chamber led,

And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed,
Two children pale! and he the jewels knew,
Which God had lent him, and resumed anew.

R. C. TRENCH.

I

AN INFANT'S EPITAPH.

BENEATH this stone an infant lies,
To earth her body's lent:
More glorious she'll hereafter rise,

Though not more innocent,

When the archangel's trump shall blow,

And souls to bodies join,

Millions will wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine,

O MOURN NOT, FOND MOTHER.

O MOURN not, fond mother, the joys that depart,
There is comfort and peace for the stricken in heart;
God has taken the spirit that basked in thy love,
"The beautiful angels" have borne it above.

The plan that thou rearedst to smile on earth's gloom
Has fastened its roots in the soil of the tomb;
It smiled in thy garden, so bright and so fair,
It has climbed o'er the wall, and is blossoming there.

The gem that thou worest with pride on thy breast, Adorns with its brightness the land of the blest; The rose still is fragrant, tho' broke from the stem, The setting is ruined, but safe is the gem.

Then gird thee to labour, to trial and love,
The treasure once thine shall await thee above;
Be faithful, be earnest, night soon will be riven,
And the lost ones of earth, be thy jewels in heaven.
REV. S. F. SMITH.

THE TENANTLESS BED,

My little one, my sweet one,
Thy couch is empty now,
Where oft I wiped the dews away
Which gathered on thy brow.
No more, amidst the sleepless night,
I smooth thy pillow fair;

'Tis smooth indeed, but rest no more
Thy small, pale features there.

My little one, my sweet one,

Thou canst not come to me,
But nearer draws the numbered hour
When I shall go to thee;

And thou, perchance, with seraph smile,

And golden harp in hand,

May'st come the first to welcome me

To our Immanuel's land.