Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together

walk,

Nor scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk;

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat and ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee-she teaches

him to pray

And strange and sweet and solemn then, the words that he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me,

A holier, and a wiser man, I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow.

I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him

now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three,
I'll not declare, how bright and fair his little features

be,

And silver sweet those tones of his, while prattling on

my knee;

I do not think his light blue eye is like his brother's

keen,

Nor is his brow so full of childish thought, as his has often been;

And his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And every look a gleam of light with depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folks, who pass us in the street,

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow he is to all, and yet with cheerful

tone

Will sing his little song of love when he is left

alone.

His presence is like sunshine, sent down to gladden

earth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our

mirth :

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love;

And if beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,

God comfort us, for all the love that we may lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I can not

tell,

For they reckon not by years and months where he has gone to dwell.

To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles

were given,

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.

I can not tell what form is his, what look he weareth

now,

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss that he doth feel

Are numbered with the secret things which God doth not reveal.

But I know-for God hath told me this-that now he

is at rest,

Where other blessed infants are, on their loving Savior's breast.

Whate'er befals his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease

Their lot may here be grief and pain, but his is perfect

peace:

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss can 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 he still must be

When we think 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!

Grief's Dying Wear.*

Now my heart's deep bell is tolling,-
Slowly, slowly,-slowly knolling;-
And in silence stands the bier,
Waiting for Grief's Dying Year.

While sad memory is folding
Her funereal scroll, she's holding
Pictures drawn in sorrow's night,
Close before my aching sight.

Though they pass in quick succession,
Yet they trace a deep impression,-
By some wondrous magic art,
Print their copy on my heart ;-

There to dwell and strangely sadden,-
Sometimes even almost madden,—

Painting scenes before my eye,

Fraught with tears and agony.

*From "The Broken Bud, or Reminiscences of a Bereaved Mother."