A MOTHER'S SACRIFICE.

Sigourney.

'God loveth a cheerful giver.'

'WHAT shall I render thee, Father supreme, For thy rich gifts; and this the best of all? Said the young mother, as she fondly watched Her sleeping babe. There was an answering

voice

That night in dreams.

'Thou hast a little bud, Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love. Give me that bud. 'Twill be a flower in heaven.'

But there was silence; yea, a hush so deep, Breathless, and terror stricken, that the lip

Blanched in its trance.

'Thou hast a little harp! How sweetly would it swell the angels' song; Yield me that harp.' There burst a shuddering sob

As if the bosom by some hidden sword
Was cleft in twain.

Morn came; a blight had found
The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud:
The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and
broke,

And that young mother lay upon the earth
In childless agony. Again the voice
That stirred her vision.

'He who asked of thee,

Loveth a cheerful giver.' So she raised
Her gushing eyes, and 'ere the tear-drop dried
Upon its fringes, smiled; and that meek smile,
Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteous-

ness.

'AS THY DAY, SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE.’

Sigourney.

WHEN adverse winds and waves arise,
And in my heart despondence sighs;
When life her throng of care reveals,
And weakness o'er my spirit steals-
Grateful I hear the kind decree,

6

That, as my day my strength shall be.'

When, with sad footsteps, memory roves
'Mid smitten joys and buried loves;
When sleep my tearful pillow flies,
And dewy morning drinks my sighs,
Still to thy promise, Lord, I flee,

That, as my day my strength shall be.'

One trial more must yet be past,
One pang-the keenest, and the last;
And when, with brow convulsed and pale,
My feeble, quivering heartstrings fail,
Redeemer, grant my soul to see
That as her day, her strength shall be.'

TO A DYING INFANT.

Miss Bowles.

SLEEP, little baby, sleep!
Not on thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast,
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be!
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling

Flee to thy grassy nest!

There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow,
Shall fall upon thy breast.

Mount up, immortal essence,
Young spirit, haste-depart;
And is this death? dread thing!
If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I would gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face,
So passionless, so pure,
That little shrine was, sure,
An angel's dwelling place.

Thou weepest, childless mother!
Aye weep, 'twill ease thy heart

It was thy first-born son,
Thy first-thy only one,

'Tis hard from him to part.

'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp, cold earth, His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

t;

But thou wilt then, fond mother,
In after years look back,
(Time brings such wondrous easing,)
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en in this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, 'My first-born blessing
It almost broke my heart,
When thou wert forced to go;
And yet for thee, I know,
'Twas better to depart.

'God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified.

'I look around and see
The evil ways of man,
And oh beloved child,
I'm more than reconciled,
To thy departure then.

'Now like a dew-drop shrined
Within a crystal stone,
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove--
Safe with the Source of love,
The everlasting One.

'And when the hour arrives, From flesh that sets me free,

Thy spirit may await

The first at heaven's gate,
To meet and welcome me.'