The sunshine of eternal rest:

Abide, my child, where thou art, blest;

I with our friends will onward fare,

And, when God wills, shall find thee there.*

"GO HENCE, MY CHILD."

GOTTFRIED HOFFMANN (1658).

(Translated from the German by the REV. JOHN GUTHRIE, M.A., Glasgow.) Go hence, my child!

God calls thee to depart

From out this world of woe.

I weep full sore; thy death has rung my heart;

But since God wills it so,

I'll put all vain laments away,

And try, with soul resigned, to say,

Go hence, my child!

Go hence, my child!

To me thou wert but lent

A while on earth to roam;

And now the summons comes; thy day is spent ;

And thou must hie thee home.

Then go, for 'tis God's wise decree,

And as He wills, so let it be :

Go hence, my child!

Go hence, my child!

Thou find'st in heaven that rest

Which earth could not bestow;

'Tis only with thy God thou canst be blest,
Without one trace of woe.

Here we must grieve and inly pine,

There endless life and bliss are thine :

Go hence, my child!

Lyra Germanica. Translated from the German by Catherine Winkworth. London: Longman, Green, & Co.

Go hence, my child!

We follow all apace,

As God may bid us go.

Forth didst thou haste, ere yet earth's bitterness

Dashed thy young life below.

A life prolonged is lingering pain,

An early death is speedy gain:

Go hence, my child!

Go hence, my child!

Already angels wait

To bear thy spirit bright,

Where God's dear Son shall meet thee at heaven's gate,

And crown thy brows with light.
'Tis well, thy little soul is free,
Through Christ thou hast the victory :
Go hence, my child!

DANTE'S VISION.

Now contemplate the Providence divine;

Whence Faith, as viewed on its two several sides,
Shall equally in this fair garden shine.
And know that downward from the lofty throne,
Which in the middle the two parts divides,
No one is there through merit of his own,
But through Another's; and upon conditions;
For all these souls freed from the body were,
Ere upon choice were founded their volitions.
This may you be convinced of (if due pains

You take to mark them, and their accents hear)
Both by their looks, and by their childish strains.
Yet now you doubt, and still your doubts withhold:
But though your bonds are intricate, yet I
Will strive your subtle reasonings to unfold.

Within this peaceful kingdom's wide domain
No room is to be found for casualty,

No dwelling there for hunger, thirst, or pain:
For in this realm is stablished every thing
Under the sanction of eternal laws,

As to the finger answereth a ring; Therefore the children that herein do press To life eternal, not without a cause Inherit excellence or more or less.*

"OUR WEE WHITE ROSE."

GERALD MASSEY.

ALL in our marriage garden

Grew, smiling up to God,

A bonnier flower than ever

Suckt the green warmth of the sod.

O beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled;

Love's crowning sweetness 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,
And 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.

Two flowers of glorious crimson
Grew with our Rose of light;

Still kept the sweet heaven-grafted slip
Her whiteness saintly white.

* Dante. By I. C. Wright, M.A.

London: H. G. Bohn. [Dante, the

great Italian poet, was born at Florence in 1265, and died in 1321.]

I' the wind of life they danced with glee,
And reddened as it whirled;

More white and wondrous grew our wee
White Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragrance,

Our house of life she filledRevealed 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 up-curled,

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.

Our leaves are shaken from the tree,
Our hopes laid low,

That after our Spring-nurslings, we
May long to go.

The warm love-nest our little Doves leave
With helpless moan,

As they for us at heart would grieve
In heaven-alone!

The tender Shepherd beckoningly

Our Lambs doth hold,

That we may take our own when He
Makes up the fold.*

THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

ALARIC A, WATTS.

THE late Sir Robert Peel sent the following note to the accomplished author-"It is not from mere courtesy that I assure you that your name is respected by me. I have had the satisfaction of reading many of your poems. I particularly call to mind two 'The Death of the First-Born,' and 'My Own Fire-Side;' to have written which, would be an honourable distinction to any one."

My sweet one! my sweet one! the tears were in my eyes When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;

For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss Thy cherry lips, and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!

*Poctical Works of Gerald Massey. London: Routledge & Co.