THE RECONCILIATION. As thro' the land at eve we went, And kiss'd again with tears. And kiss again with tears! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, ALFRED TENNYSON. GOLDEN-TRESSÈD ADELAIDE. A SONG FOR A CHILD. SING, I pray, a little song, Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid, Golden-tressèd Adelaide! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, Mother dear! Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee; Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given; A type of heaven! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blythe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy! Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still A form of light! I feel thy breath upon my cheek- Methinks thou smil'st before me now, With glance of stealth; The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light- The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball; A corner holds thine empty chair; Even to the last, thy every word— To glad to grieve Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird In outward beauty undecay'd, We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee, when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth, It doth not own, whate'er may seem, An inward birth; We miss thy small step on the stair;— We miss thee at thine evening prayer; All day we miss thee-everywhere— Casa Wappy! Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, 'Tis so; but can it be-while flowers Man's doom, in death that we and ours Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave, It cannot be; for were it so Life were a mockery-thought were woe- Heaven were a coinage of the brain- Then be to us, O dear lost child! A star, death's uncongenial wild Soon, soon thy little feet have trod Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy; There past are death and all its woes; There beauty's stream for ever flows; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy! Farewell, then—for a while, farewell— Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And, dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy! DAVID MACBETH MOIR. WILLIE WINKIE. WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?-for it's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin', hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep. Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; We maun na luve the gift owre weel; "Twad be na blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, J. E. RANKIN. THE DUMB CHILD. SHE is my only girl: I ask'd for her as some most precious thing, For all unfinish'd was love's jewell'd ring Till set with this soft pearl: Onything but sleep, ye rogue!-glowerin' The shade that time brought forth I could like the moon, Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, not see; How pure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to me! Oh, many a soft old tune I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her Ah, needless care! I might have let them play! 'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me: Waited and watch'd. God knows how patiently! How willingly deceived! Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, And tended Hope until it starved to death. Oh if she could but hear For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach To call me mother, in the broken speech My heart it sorely tries To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer; Or lift those earnest eyes To watch our lips, as though our words she knew, Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear That even her father would not care for her. Thank God it is not so! And when his sons are playing merrily, Then move her own, as she were speaking She comes and leans her head upon his To her; the world of sound a nameless To her defect a beauty of its own : void, While even Silence hath its charms de stroy'd. Her face is very fair: Her blue eye beautiful: of finest mould The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves of gold Ripples her shining hair. Alas! this lovely temple closed must be; For He who made it keeps the masterkey. Wills He the mind within And we a deeper tenderness have known, Through that for which we grieve. Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear, Yes, and my voice shall fill it but not here! When that new sense is given, What rapture will its first experience be, That never woke to meaner melody Than the rich songs of HeavenTo hear the full-toned anthem swelling round, Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept While angels teach the ecstasies of free, E'en that His still small voice and step might be Heard at its inner shrine, Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill? Then should I grieve? O murmuring heart, be still! She seems to have a sense Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. sound! AUTHOR UNKNOWN. THE WONDERFU WEAN. OUR wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw ; It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a' His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee, When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me; |