Wee Willie.

FARE thee well, our last and fairest,
Dear wee Willie, fare thee well!
He who lent thee hath recalled thee
Back, with Him and His to dwell.
Fifteen moons, their silver lustre,
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit joined the seraphs,
And thy dust-the dead.

DR. MOIR.

Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling,
Shone thy presence, bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure,

To our sorrows thou wert balm.
Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer,
And thy first attempts at speech
Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
With thy fine fair locks outspread,
Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who from heaven to earth had strayed;
And entranced, we watched beside thee,
Half in hope, and half affright,
Lest what we deemed ours and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.

Snow o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrimmed the sky,
When the first drear doubt oppressed us,
That our child was doomed to die!
Through the long night-watch, the taper
Showed the hectic on thy cheek,
And each anxious dawn beheld thee
More worn-out and weak.

'Twas even then Destruction's angel Shook his pinions in our path, Seized the roses of our household,

And struck Charlie down in death. Fearful-awful desolation

On our lintel set his sign,

And we turned from his sad death-bed,
Willie, round to thine.

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber played,
Lifeless in mine arms I raised thee,
And in thy small coffin laid.
Ere the day-star with the darkness
Nine times had in triumph striven,
In one grave had met your ashes,
your souls in heaven.

And

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms
Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearths;
Two asleep lie buried yonder—

Three for us yet gladden earth:
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie,

Willie thee, our snow-drop pure,

From the earth shall second spring-time Nevermore allure.

Yet while thinkling-Oh! our lost ones?
Of how dear you were to us,

Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Why across the cold dim churchyard
Flit such visions of despair?

Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel

Saith-"Ye are not there!"

Where then are ye? With the Savior
Blest, for ever blest, are ye,
'Mid the sinless little children,

Who have heard this-" Come to me;"
Passed the shades of death's dark valley,
Now ye lean upon His breast:
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary rest.

The Three Sons.

MOULTRIE.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould;

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways

appears,

That my boy is wise, and grave of heart, beyond his childish years.

I can not say how this may be-I know his face is

fair

And yet his chiefest comeliness, is his sweet and serious

air.

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth

me,

And loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fer

vency,

But that which others most admire is the thought that fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find.