The child looked upward into space

With eager and inquiring eyes, And o'er its sweet and thoughtful face Came a faint glory, and a grace Transmitted from the skies.

With the last odorous sigh of May,
That child beneath the flowers was laid;

Like dew, its spirit passed away

To mingle in eternal day,

With angels perfect made.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

MY CHILD.

A LIGHT is from our household

A voice we loved is stilled, A place is vacant at our hearth

gone,

Which never can be filled;
A gentle heart, that throbbed but now
With tenderness and love,

Has hushed its weary throbbings here,

To throb in bliss above.

Yes, to the home where angels are,

Her trusting soul has fled,
And yet we bend above the tomb
With tears, and call her dead.
We call her dead, but ah! we know
She dwells where living waters flow.

THE LITTLE BOY'S BURIAL.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,

With calm sad brows, and raven hair,

And one was pale, and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown,
Bring forest blooms of name unknown;
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild

To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep,
And fold his hands in sign of rest,

His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And blue-birds in the misty spring
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.

Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around

His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

The patter of his little feet,

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye,
All these shall haunt us till the heart
Shall ache and ache-and tears will start.

The bow, the band shall fall to dust,
The shining arrows waste with rust,
And all of Love that earth can claim,
Be but a memory and a name.

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell,
A prisoner in this narrow cell;
But he whom now we hide from men
In the dark ground shall live again;

Shall break these clods, a form of light,
With nobler mien, and purer sight,
And in the eternal glory stand,
Highest and nearest God's right hand.

BRYANT.

CAN I WISH HIM BACK AGAIN?

COULD I wish that this young inhabitant of heaven should be degraded to earth again? Or would it thank me for that wish? Would it say that it was the part of a wise parent, to call it down from a sphere of such exalted services and pleasures to our low life here upon earth? Let me rather be thankful for the pleasing hope, that though God loves my child too well to permit it to return to me, He will ere long bring me to it. And then that endeared paternal affection, which would have been a cord to tie me to earth, and have added new pangs to my removal from it, will be as a golden chain to draw me upwards, and add one further charm and joy even to paradise itself.

DODDRIDGE.

THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.

GENTLE Shepherd, Thou hast stilled
Now thy little lamb's long weeping;
Ah, how peaceful, pale, and mild,
In its narrow bed 'tis sleeping,
And no sigh of anguish sore
Heaves that little bosom more.

In this world of care and pain,

Lord, Thou wouldst no longer leave it,

To the sunny heavenly plain

Dost Thou now with joy receive it;
Clothed in robes of spotless white,
Now it dwells with Thee in light.

Ah, Lord Jesus, grant that we
Where it lives may soon be living,

And the lovely pastures see

That its heavenly food are giving,

Then the gain of death we prove
Though Thou take what most we love.

MEINHOLD.

MISS WINKWORTH'S Translation, "Lyra Germanica,"

2d Series. (Longman & Co.)