ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

MRS. JEVONS.

O LAY her gently on her infant bier,

And shed fond tears, and weave a funeral wreath

Of the pale roses of the wintry year,

Less lovely than the flower that fades beneath.
Yet do not weep in anguish! Let no breath
Disturb the stillness of her blissful sleep;
So beautiful! we will not call it death;

But round her couch our silent vigils keep.
Image of peace and innocence and love!

We would not murmur at thy deep repose, Or call thee ours, the ills of life to prove,

And taste the bitterness of mortal woes. Oh, blest! to feel thy guiltless race is run— Thy fadeless crown without the strife is won.

TO MY SON.

GRAHAME.

TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground,
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give.
For O! it would a joy in death impart,
To think I still survived within his heart:
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look, bedimmed with tears;

G

And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke;

What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;

What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child ;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,
To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn;
To teach religion, unallied to strife,

And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.
But far and farther still my view I bend,—
And now I see a child thy steps attend ;—
To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the infant play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, "There thy grandsire
lies!"

ON A PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD.

BERNARD BARTON.

How beautiful is sleep!

The peasant boy who, folded in his plaid,

Kept watch beside his sheep,

Seems lovelier in its silent beauty clad.

The warrior in his tent,

From fancied glory by its spell beguiled,

Looks calmly innocent,

As when he was a happy gentle child.

The brow of hoary age,

Pain's pallid cheek, and sorrow's sunken eye,

E'en the curled lip of

rage,

Confess by turn its magic mastery.

But softest falls its dew

On childhood's brow and cheek; whether they wear

The rose's healthier hue,

Or early sickness plant the lily there.

How beautiful is sleep!

Yet if its purest beauties thou wouldst feel,
On the babe's slumber creep,

And bid thy heart confess its mute appeal.

Or to this picture turn

But for a moment thy attentive eye ;
And let thy spirit learn

The pleading charm of slumbering infancy.

In breathless silence stand,

As by the timid turtle's downy nest;
See, on its tiny hand

Its little cheek in placid stillness prest!

Mark what a helpless charm

Is shed o'er every feature, every limb!
Behold that lovely arm;

That smiling mouth :-and if those eyes be dim,

Quenching their brighter flashes Beneath those veiny lids! a softer spell

Upon their silken lashes

In quiet innocence appears to dwell.

Yet sleep is awful, too,

So like to death's its features it can dress ;-
Meek slumberer! while I view

Thine own, I deeply feel its awfulness.