FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel! silence is o'er thy plains!
Thy dwellings all lie desolate, thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee on Etham's barren shore?
That fire from heaven, which led thee, now lights thy path no more!

Lord! Thou didst love Jerusalem; once she was all Thine own:
Her love Thy fairest heritage, her power Thy glory's throne;

Till evil came, and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted for other gods than Thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma; then passed her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness, the light wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers, where once the mighty trod;
And sunk those guilty towers, where Baal reigned as God.

"Go," said the Lord, "ye conquerors! steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements, for they are not the Lord's!
Till Zion's mournful daughter o'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter shall hide but half her dead."

But soon shall other pictured scenes in brighter vision rise,
When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine on all her mourners' eyes;
And, on her mountains beauteous, stand messengers of peace;
"Salvation by the Lord's right hand!" they shout and never cease.

-THOMAS MOORE.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould:

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be-I know his face is fair,

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,

But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency.

But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind,-
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find:

THE THREE SONS.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ;
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next :
He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teaches him to pray,

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three:
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver-sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee.
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been ;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street
Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love.
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son: his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),
When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,
But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,-
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,-
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,-
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

-MOULTRIE.

THEY said she might recover, if we sent her down to the sea,
But that is for rich men's children, and we knew it could not be;

So she lived at home in the Lincolnshire Fens, and we saw her, day by day,
Grow pale, and stunted, and crooked; till her last chance died away.

And now I'm dying; and often, when you thought that I moaned with pain,
I was moaning a prayer to Heaven, and thinking of Crippled Jane.
Folks will be kind to Johnny; his temper is merry and light;
With so much love in his honest eyes, and a sturdy sense of right.
And no one could quarrel with Susan; so pious, and meek, and mild,
And nearly as wise as a woman, for all she looks such a child!
But Jane will be weird and wayward; fierce, and cunning, and hard;
She won't believe she's a burden, be thankful, nor win regard.-
God have mercy upon her! God be her guard and guide!

How will strangers bear with her, when, at times, even I felt tried?
When the ugly smile of pleasure goes over her sallow face,
And the feeling of health, for an hour, quickens her languid pace;
When with dwarfish strength she rises, and plucks, with a selfish band,
The busiest person near her, to lead her out on the land;

Or when she sits in some corner, no one's companion or care,
Huddled up in some darksome passage, or crouched on a step of the stair;
While far off the children are playing, and the birds singing loud in the sky,
And she looks through the cloud of her headache, to scowl at the passers-by.
I die-God have pity upon her!-how happy rich men must be!-
For they said she might have recovered-if we sent her down to the sea.

-HON. MRS. NORTON.