And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost

Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst

cost.

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee, day by day,

Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away: And, sick with dark foreboding fears we dared not breathe

aloud,

Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud!

It came, at length,-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,—

And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last;

In thicker gushes strove thy breath,— -we raised thy drooping head;

A moment more- -the final parg—and thou wert of the Dead!

Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me,
And murmured low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attained by

thee;

She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,

Had her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow

Culled one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace now; Then placed around thy beauteous corpse, flowers, not more fair and sweet,—

Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,- |
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst;
They may be lovely and beloved, but not, like thee, the First!

THE FIRST!-How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,

Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's delightful spring;

Of fervid feelings passed away-those early seeds of bliss
That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this!

My sweet one! my sweet one! my fairest and my First! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,
With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth,
God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss, eternal bliss, is thine, my fairest and my FIRST!

THE ANGEL AND THE INFANT.

THEODORE MARTIN, London.

(From the French of Jean Reboullé, of Nismes.)

AN angel over a cradle stood;

His visage shone with a radiant gleam;
And he seem'd on his own fair form to brood
In the mirror pure of a crystal stream.
"Oh, come to my home, sweet babe so fair!"
He murmur'd; "Come with me now!
Ah, we shall be happy together there;
The earth is unworthy of such as thou.

"Its gladness is never without alloy;

Some pang from its best delights will rise; A wail still rings through its shouts of joy, And all its pleasures are clogg'd with sighs.

"O'er every feast is the fear of doom;
No sky so clear and serene, but may
Be blacken'd and riven with storm and gloom
Before the dawn of another day.

"On that pure brow shall the trouble pass
Of hopes deceived, and of haunting fears?
Shall those blue eyes be bedimm'd, alas !
By the bitter rain of regretful tears?

"No, no! dear babe, through the fields of space
Thou wilt fly with me to a better sphere;
God will not exact, in His boundless grace,
The days that else thou hadst linger'd here.

"No soil of sorrow, no taint of sin,

From thy sojourn here on thy robes shall rest, The smiles that usher'd thy young life in

Shall follow thee home to yon region blest.

"On thy forehead no cloud shall a shadow fling, Nor the darkness there of the grave forecast;

Of so unspotted and pure a thing

The loveliest morning is still its last.”

And, slowly unfolding his wings snow-white,
The angel ceased, and aloft he fled

To the blest abodes of eternal light.

Alas! poor mother! Thy boy is dead!

THE SICK CHILD'S DREAM.
ROBERT NICOLL.

O! MITHER, mither, my head was sair,
And my een wi' tears were weet;
But the pain has gane for evermair,

Sae, mither, dinna greet:

And I ha'e had sic a bonnie dream,
Since last asleep I fell,

O' a' that is holy an' gude to name,

That I've wauken'd my dream to tell.

I thought on the morn o' a simmer day
That awa' through the clouds I flew,
While my silken hair did wavin' play,
'Mang breezes steep'd in dew;

And the happy things o' life and light
Were around my gowden way,

As they stood in their parent Heaven's sight
In the hames o' nightless day.

An' sangs o' love that nae tongue may tell
Frae their hearts cam' flowin' free,

Till the stars stood still, while alang did swell
The plaintive melodie.

And ane o' them sang wi' my mither's voice, Till through my heart did gae

That chanted hymn o' my bairnhood's choice, Sae dowie, saft, an' wae.

Thae happy things o' the glorious sky

Did lead me far away,

Where the stream o' life rins never dry,

Where naething kens decay;

And they laid me down in a mossy bed,
Wi' curtains o' spring leaves green,
And the Name o' God they praying said,
And a light came o'er my een.

And I saw the earth that I had left

And I saw my mither there;

And I saw her grieve that she was bereft
O' the bairn she thought sae fair;

And I saw her pine till her spirit fled-
Like a bird to its young one's nest-
To that land of love; and my head was laid
Again on my mither's breast.

And, mither, ye took me by the hand,

As ye were wont to do,

And your loof, sae saft and white, I fand

Laid on my caller brow;

And my lips you kiss'd, and my curling hair
You round your fingers wreath'd;

And I kent that a happy mither's prayer
Was o'er me silent breath'd-

And we wander'd through that happy land,
That was gladly glorious a';

The dwellers there were an angel-band,

And their voices o' love did fa'

On our ravish'd ears like the deein' tones

O' an anthem far away,

In a starn-lit hour, when the woodland moans That its green is turn'd to gray.

And, mither, amang the sorrowless there,

We met my brithers three,

And your bonnie May, my sister fair,

And a happy bairn was she;

And she led me awa' 'mang living flowers,

As on earth she aft has done;

And thegither we sat in the holy bowers

Where the blessed rest aboon:-