I cannot tell what form is his,
What looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns
His shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul,
The bliss which he doth feel,
Are number'd with the secret things
Which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this)
That he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be,
On their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more
Tn weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams
Of joy for ever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close
Beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes Of Heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe,
(His mother dear and I,)
When God for aye shall wipe away
All tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain,
His bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear,
But his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles
Their souls from bliss may sever,
But if our own poor faith fail not,
He must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is,
And what we still must be,
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss,
And this world's misery,—
When we groan beneath this load of sin,
And feel this grief and pain,-
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two,
Than have him here again.
THE YOUNGEST.
I ROCKED her in the cradle,
And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest.
What fireside circle hath not felt the charm
Of that sweet tie? The youngest ne'er grow
The fond endearments of our earlier days
We keep alive in them; and when they die,
Our youthful joys we bury with them.
ALL in our marriage garden
Grew, smiling up to God,
A bonnier flower than ever
Suck'd the green warmth of the sod;
O, beautiful unfathomably
Its little life unfurled;
And crown of all things was our wee
White Rose of all the world.
From out a balmy bosom
Our bud of beauty grew;
It fed on smiles for sunshine;
On tears for daintier dew:
Aye nestling warm and tenderly,
Our leaves of love were curled,
So close and close, about our wee
White Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragrance
Our house of life she fill'd-
Revealed each hour some fairy tower
Where winged hopes might build!
We saw-though none like us might see―
Such precious promise pearled
Upon the petals of our wee
White Rose of all the world.
But, evermore the halo
Of angel-light increased,
Like the mystery of moonlight
That folds some fairy feast.
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently,
Our darling bud upcurled,
And dropt i' the grave-God's lap—our wee
White Rose of all the world.
Our rose was but in blossom;
Our life was but in spring;
When down the solemn midnight
We heard the spirits sing—
"Another bud of infancy
With holy dews impearled!"
And in their hands they bore our wee
White Rose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thing
Could leave a loss so large;
Her little light such shadow fling
From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be
In bannered bloom unfurled,
But never, never match our wee
White Rose of all the world.
AROUND the throne of God in heaven,
Thousands of children stand-
Children whose sins are all forgiven,
A holy, happy band,
Singing, Glory, glory.
In flowing robes of spotless white,
See every one arrayed;
Dwelling in everlasting light,
And joys that never fade,
Singing, Glory, glory.
What brought them to that world above?
That heaven so bright and fair,
Where all is peace, and joy, and love;
How came those children there?
Singing, Glory, glory.
Because the Saviour shed his blood,
To wash away their sin;
Bathed in that pure and precious flood,
Behold them white and clean,
Singing, Glory, glory.
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