It is over-but many and many a year
May return to that mother's breast the fear;
And as to the altar she now has turned,
Till the holier faith in her bosom burned,

So, through every mortal change and care,
Must her strength, her comfort, her peace be prayer.

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF H. F.,

WHO DIED AGED EIGHT YEARS.

M. R.

A MORNING dewdrop filled a daisy's cup
And fairer made the place of its repose;
But long ere noon the daisy drooped and died,
The dewdrop to the skies on sunbeams rose.

So did the virtues of this little child,

Make her in outward form appear more fair;
So when her tender frame returned to dust,
Her spirit went to dwell in heavenly air!

CHILDHOOD.

MISS WILLIAMS.

How beautiful is childhood!-a new world
Is opening to the quick, delighted eye;
The heavens appear as a gemmed scroll unfurled
Before the throne of present Deity;

And every tone, of stream, or bee, or bird
As a new thrilling voice of melody is heard.

Its trust is calm as summer moonlit sea;
Its feelings gushing forth like mountain rill,
Fresh as its own young life, as nature free,
Yet tending in their own excess to ill,

And bounding onward, strengthening in their course, Ask kindliest care to guide, yet not turn back their force.

Who knoweth not how soon the feeble child
Will try its new-found powers with ready zeal,
Happy if by its efforts is beguiled

The sorrow it has scarcely learnt to feel;

How will the joyous one its laugh restrain,

To smooth with its small hands the couch of care or pain!

How many a blight must such endure erewhile

Their glowing sensibilities are quelled;

How scan the world's dull caution and its guile,
Before the angel can be quite expelled;

How shrink beneath the frown of hate and scorn, Ere from a source so pure, hatred and wrong are born!

The work of education, hour by hour,
Around the expanding spirit presses on,
Goads it to doubt all love, and loathe all power,
E'en His who fashioned all it looks upon;

Or makes its life an everlasting hymn

Of gratitude, and love, and welcome praise to Him.

Childhood, I love thee !-love thee for their sake
Whom I have known in thy bright joyous

tide;

Thou hast their voice, thou their forms dost take;

Thou still art prone to love and to confide;

Thou bringest me sweet pictures of the past,
And with thy fairy hand a spell doth round me cast.

Childhood, I love thee !—for the hidden store
Of passion, thoughts, reflections, energies,
Lofty imaginations, and yet more

Of pure devotion, true philanthropy,

Which wait development, though yet bound up,
As the majestic oak, in the small acorn's cup.

Childhood, I love thee! for His sake who brought
Glad tidings from the very fount of love,
And in thy trustfulness an emblem sought

To image that His spirit would approve ;
Thus making thee a blessed link between
Man's scathed and erring heart, and the bright world

unseen.

O bud of promise! beautiful estate,Humanity undimmed and undefiled! If I were called to name the truly great, Should I like Jesus clasp a little child? What do earth's elder-born ones owe to thee, Who waitest at their hands so much thy destiny!

O world! thou stern instructor, what wilt thou Make of the bounding heart, the unfolding mind?

Must thy cold policy the spirit bow

The living temple be to thee consigned ? Will not thy votaries pause, ere they deface

The image of their God, in this its dwelling-place?

DELIGHTED Soul! that in thy new abode
Dwellest contentedly, and knowest not
What men can mean who faint beneath the load
Of mortal life and mourn an earthly lot;

Who would believe thou wert so far from home?
Who could suppose thee exiled or astray?
This world of twilight whither thou art come,
Seems just as welcome as thy native day.

That comely form, wherein thy thoughts are pent,
Hiding its rebel nature, serves thee still,

A pliable and pleasant instrument,
Harmonious to thy impulses and will.

Thou hast not spent as yet thy little store
Of happy instincts: thou canst still beguile
Painful reflection and ungrateful lore

With many a placid dream and causeless smile.