And whem at evening's close,

Those little hands, relaxing from the grasp,

That some dear object heid, with loving clasp,
Ye sunk into repose,

Love made your slumber seem

As the closed flowers, o'er which the silent star
Keepeth its ceaseless vigil from afar,
And sheds its unfelt beam.

I looked upon you then

With thoughts almost of sorrow in my gaze,
As on a passing joy, which other days
Would make not mine again.

I feared some change might sweep Through the untroubled breast, and leave its stain ; Some unsuspected ill, some bitter pain, Mar with sad dreams your sleep.

I know that change has past

O'er you, sweet, tender nurselings! but I know Your spirits now will never taste of woe,— That change will be the last.

Ye are before me now,

e were wont to be-no beauty gone

Phose eyes, even when tearful, shone,
harm from that pure brow.

Too calm, too deeply still

Is that unchanging picture; yet a part
Of the sweet visions of the past, my heart
Can make its own at will.

And thus ye are mine own,— Mine own, to dwell upon, with quiet love; Thoughts the world cannot touch, nor time removeFrom me ye are not gone.

I ask not where are laid

Those faded forms-whether below the sod
Which busy feet have with indifference trod,
Or 'neath some kindly shade.

Where, on earth's tranquil breast, The peace of the Eternal One hath smiled, E'en as a mother o'er her cradled child, There is your place of rest.

He who mankind shall wake,

Over his children's rest a watch doth keep,

And, with a voice that breathes of love, the sleep

Of innocence will break.

Not in that simple tomb,

But in "

our Father's house," where love shall be

Abiding, even in its own sanctuary,

There is the infant's home.

TO A LITTLE GIRL DURING ILLNESS.

MISS ROSCOE.

SWEET child, that oft hast wound about my heart
Thy little spells of kindness, and so smiled
That even sorrow hath been half beguiled,
Till in thy young joys I have borne a part;
O rich in promise, gentlest, loveliest, best,

Art thou too drooping? yes, and I must tell
This sad heart not to cherish thee too well,
Or be in dreams of thy young future blest.
Alas! alas! those visions fade, yet Love!
For thee shall watch the fondest, tenderest care;
For thee shall rise affection's daily prayer;
And many an anxious sigh ascend above.

O thought of peace, and trust, He guards thy doom, Who bade that eye first beam, that young cheek bloom.

STANZAS.

From the Boston Christian Observer.

SCATTERED like flowers, the rosy children play;
Or round her chair a busy crowd they press;
But, at the father's coming, start away,
With playful struggle for his loved caress,
And jealous of the one he first may bless;
To each a welcoming word is fondly said;
He bends and kisses some; lifts up the less;
Admires the little cheek so round and red,

Or smoothes with tender hand, the curled and shining head.

Oh! let us pause and gaze upon

them now.
Is there not one beloved and lovely boy!
With mirth's bright seal upon his open brow,
And sweet fond eyes, brimful of love and joy?
He, whom no measure of delight can cloy
The daring, and the darling of the set;

He, who, though pleased with every pleasing toy, Thoughtless and buoyant to excess, could yet Never a gentle word or kindly deed forget.

I

And one, more fragile than the rest, for whom,
As for the weak bird in a crowded nest,

Are needed all the fostering care of home
And the soft comfort of the brooding breast;
One who hath oft the couch of sickness prest!
On whom the mother looks, as it goes by,
With tenderness intense, and fear supprest,
While the soft patience of her anxious eye
Blends with "God's will be done,-God grant thou
mayst not die!"

And is there not the elder of the band! She with the gentle smile and smooth bright hair, Waiting, some paces back,-content to stand Till these of love's caresses have their share; Knowing how soon his fond paternal care Shall seek his violet in her shady nook,Patient she stands-demure, and brightly fair, Copying the meekness of her mother's look, And clasping in her hand the favourite story-book.