And she tauld me I was in Paradise,

Where God in love doth dwell—

Where the weary rest, and the mourner's voice
Forgets its warld-wail;

And she tauld me they kentna dull nor care;

And bade me be glad to dee,

That yon sinless land and the dwellers there
Might be hame and kin to me.

Then sweetly a voice came on my ears,
And it sounded sae holily,

That my heart grew saft, and blabs o' tears
Sprung up in my sleepin' e'e;

And my inmost soul was sairly moved
Wi' its mair than mortal joy;-

'Twas the voice o' Him who bairnies loved
That wauken'd your dreamin' boy!*

"WORDS OF COMFORT." †

MRS. JANET HAMILTON, LANGLOAN, COATBRIDGE.
"Words of Comfort"-they are come,
Rich in many a tender token,
Weeping love and mothers' woe,
Deeply felt and fitly spoken.

"Words of Comfort"-ah! to whom
Do they come? Our Heavenly Father
Comforts all who mourn, bereaved
Of the flowers His hand doth gather.

"Words of Comfort "-rich the balm
From each precious page distilling
Softly on the mourner's heart

With sweet peace and comfort filling.

* Robert Nicoll's Poems. Glasgow: Blackie & Son.

† Lines suggested to the venerable authoress by the publication of the Missionaries' Edition of "Words of Comfort."""

Of the morning they are flying,

To the utmost ends of earth,
Still their bless'd vocation plying.

"Words of Comfort"-they have come,
To the Mission mother kneeling
By her infant's timeless grave,
Comfort, hope, and heaven revealing.
"Words of Comfort"-thus they speak-
"Mother, cease to soil with weeping
That pure cheek so cold and pale;
Baby is not dead but sleeping!"
"Words of Comfort"-mother dear,
Come to thee, assurance bringing
That the babe thou mourn'st as lost
Now before the throne is singing.
"Words of Comfort "--bouquet rare,
Gemm'd with many an Eden blossom,
Culled with care and placed with love
On the mourner's aching bosom.

LITTLE DORA.

MRS. JANET HAMILTON, LANGLOAN.

Too fair, too pale, too pure and wise
For earth, she early sought the skies;
Her fair broad brow and hazel eyes,
Instinct with genius, ever rise

On Memory's mournful eye.

Oh! gifted child of love and song,
Could prayers and tears thy stay prolong,
How had they flowed! The angel throng
Bore on their wings, with joy and song,
Our darling to the sky.

S

Fair star! at thy terrestrial birth

I hailed thee-watched thy course on earth;
Grave were thy joys, and quiet thy mirth-
The radiant orb, soon lost to earth,

Is shining high in heaven.

Thy earthly home a rural cot
With roses draped, with many a plot
Of flowers-earth holds no lovelier spot-
All, all remains, but thou art not,

For thou wert lent, not given.

THE CHILD IN HEAVEN.

MARY HOWITT, London.

WE meet around the board, thou art not there;
Over our household joys hath passed a gloom;
Beside the fire we see thy empty chair,

And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room.
What hopeless longings after thee arise!
Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine;
And for the sound of thy dear little feet.
Alas! tears dim mine eyes,

Meeting in every place some joy of thine,

Or when fair children pass me on the street.

Beauty was on thy cheek; and thou didst seem
A privileged being, chartered from decay;
And thy free spirit, like a mountain stream

That hath no ebb, kept on its cheerful way.

Thy laugh was like the inspiring breath of spring,

That thrills the heart, and cannot be unfelt,

The sun,

the moon, the green

And every living thing,

leaves and the flowers,

Were a strong joy to thee; thy spirit dwelt

Gladly in life, rejoicing in its powers.

Oh! what had death to do with one like thee,

Thou young and loving one; whose soul did cling, Even as the ivy clings unto the tree,

To those that loved thee? Thou, whose tears would spring Dreading a short day's absence-didst thou go

Alone into the future world unseen,

Solving each awful untried mystery,

The dread unknown to know;

To be where mortal traveller hath not been,
Whence welcome tidings cannot come from thee?

My happy boy! and murmur I that death

Over thy young and buoyant frame hath power?
In yon bright land love never perisheth,

Hope may not mock, nor grief the heart devour.
The beautiful are round thee; thou dost keep
Within the Eternal presence; and no more
May'st death or pain, or separation dread:
Thy bright eyes cannot weep,

Nor they with whom thou art thy loss deplore;
For ye are of the living, not the dead.

Thou Dweller with the unseen, who hast explored

The immense unknown; thou to whom death and heaven

Are mysteries no more; whose soul is stored

With knowledge for which man hath vainly striven;

Beloved Child, Oh! when shall I lie down

With thee beneath fair trees that cannot fade?

When from the immortal rivers quench my thirst?

Life's journey speedeth on;

Yet for a little while we walk in shade;

Anon by death the cloud is all dispersed,

Then o'er the hills of heaven the eternal day doth burst.

A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THIS July creature thought, perhaps,
Our speech not worth assuming;
She sat upon her parents' laps,

And mimicked the gnats humming;

Said, "father," "mother," then left off,
For tongues celestial, fitter:

Her hair had grown just long enough
To catch Heaven's jasper-glitter.
Babes! Love could always hear and see
Behind the cloud that hid them,

"Let little children come to Me,.

And do not thou forbid them."

Poor earth, poor heart,—too weak, too weak
To miss the July shining!

Poor heart!--what bitter words we speak
When God speaks of resigning!,
Sustain this heart in us that faints,
Thou God the Self-Existent!
We catch up wild at parting saints,
And feel Thy heaven too distant.
The wind that swept them out of sin,
Has ruffled all our vesture:

On the shut door that let them in,
We beat with frantic gesture.—
To us, us also, open straight!
The outer life is chilly;

Are we, too, like the earth to wait

Till next year for our Lily?* -Oh, my own baby on my knees, My leaping, dimpled treasure,

* "Lily," the pet name of the child.