MORAVIAN HYMN.

ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

WHERE is this infant? it is gone

To whom? to Christ, its Saviour true.
What does He for it? He goes on

As He has ever done, to do:

He blesses, He embraces without end,
And to all children proves the tenderest friend.

He loves to have the little ones

Upon His lap quite close and near;
And thus their glass so swiftly runs,

And they so little while are near.

He gave-He takes them when He thinks it best
For them to come to Him and take their rest.

However, 'tis a great delight

Awhile to see such little princes,

All drest in linen fine and white

A beauty which escapes the senses:

The pure Lamb dwells in them-His majesty
Makes their sweet eyes to sparkle gloriously.

Be therefore thanked, thou dearest Lamb,
That we this precious child have seen,
And that Thy blood and Jesus' name

To it a glittering robe hath been:

We thank Thee too that Thou hast brought it home, That it so soon all dangers hath o'ercome.

Dear child, so live thou happily

In Christ, who was thy faith's beginner : Rejoice in Him eternally

With each redeemed and happy sinner; We bury thee in hope-the Lamb once slain Will raise, and we shall see thee yet again.

Weep not for her!-There is no cause for woe;
But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back:
So, when a few fleet severing years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-and lead thee on!
Weep not for her!

HOME TRIAL.

JAMES HEDDERWICK, EDITOR OF "THE GLASGOW CITIZEN."

I NEVER thought of him and death, so far apart they seem'dThe love that would have died to save of danger scarcely

dream'd;

Too late the fear that prompted help-too late the yearning

care;

Yet who that saw his lustrous face could doubt that death would spare?

Oh, could my pangs have lightened his, or eased his failing breath,

I would have drain'd the bitter cup had every drop been death: But though I drank his agony until my heart o'erflow'd,— From off the little sufferer's breast I could not lift the load.

It weigh'd him down; I saw him sink away from life and me; Grief waded in the gentlest eyes; my own could scarcely see: He look'd so calm, he felt so cold—all hope, all life had fled— A cry of pain would have been sweet, but pain itself was dead.

They took his form of innocence, and stretch'd it out alone; Tears fell upon the pulseless clay, like rain-drops upon stone; They closed his eyes of beauty, for their glory was o'ercast, And sorrow drew its deepest shade from gladness that was past.

The sun was lazy in the heavens that day our darling died, And longer wore away the night we miss'd him from our side; All sleep was scared by weary sobs from one wild heart and mine

The only sleep in all the house, my innocent! was thine.

I made mad inquest of the skies; I breathed an inward psalm: The stars burn'd incense at God's feet-I grew more strong

and calm:

I utter'd brave and soothing words as was my manhood's part, Then hurried speechlessly away to hide the father's heart.

His coffin-crib a soft hand deck'd with flowers of sweetest scent;

To beauty and decay akin, their living breath they lent;
But never could they breath impart whence other breath had

flown ;

Ah me! affection's helplessness, when death has claim'd his

own!

Our child was now God's holy child, yet still he linger'd here;Oh, could we but have kept him thus, the pictured dust how dear!

But soon the grave its summons writ upon the black'ning lips,
And wheresoe'er I look'd for light, I only saw eclipse.

There was no loveliness in flowers, in human eyes, or books;
Dear household faces flitted round with pain'd and ghastly looks;
A shadow muffled like a mist the splendours of the day,
And sorrow speaking to the night took all its stars away.

No more might fair hands fondly smooth the pillow for his head;

The joyless task was now all mine to lay him in his bed :

I laid him in his earth-cold bed, and buried with him there

The hope that trembling on its knees expired 'mid broken

prayer.

As in the round and beauteous bud the promise we may trace
Of the unfolded perfect flower, I used to read his face,
Till love grown rash in prophecy foretold him brave and
strong-

A battler for the true and right, a trampler on the wrong.

Had I my life to live again I know how I would live,
And all the wisdom I have learn'd to him I meant to give--
To bless his glowing boyhood with the ripeness of my age,
And train him up a better man, to tread a nobler stage:

To train him up a perfect man the crown of life to win,
With kingly chastity of thought to awe rebellious sin,
With all the light thrown forward of a bright unwasted
youth-

A soul as pure as cloister'd love, and strong as castled truth.

His lot, how happy had it been, with age to guard and guide!
And yet he might have proved a sire—his darling might have
died:

If so, I need not canvass more the heavens why this should be—
Ah! better to be early dead, than live to weep like me!

Tears! tears! ye never can be his! The thought my own should dry;

Yet other thoughts and sadder thoughts still brood the foun-
tains by:

Why was a treasure to me given, for death so soon to take?
Oh, may the answer be—a heart grown purer for his sake!

Striving one day to be myself, of living things I thought,
And musing on my blessings left, a calm was in me wrought,
Till gliding to my infant's room, all noiselessly I stept,

And shudder'd as remembrance woke that there no more he
slept.