And down within the silent grave
He laid his weary head;

And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways-
Again she knelt in prayer,

And only asked of Heaven, its aid

Her heavy lot to bear.

L. E. LANDON.

ON A SLEEPING BOY.

SLEEP-and, while slumber weighs thine eye-lids down,

May no foul phantom o'er thy pillow frown;
But brightest vision deck thy tranquil bed,
And angels' wings o'er-canopy thy head.
Sleep on, sweet boy! may no dark dream arise
To mar thy rosy rest-thou babe of paradise!

See where the glowing hands are closely pressed, As when from prayer he softly sunk to rest; Mark how, with half-closed lips and cherub smile, He looks, as still he prayed, and slept the while; Yet, yet they seem as if they whispered praise For all the blessings of his halcyon days.

38

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

Bid, O Almighty Father, God, and Friend!
Religion's glories on his steps attend,

To shine through all the dreary storms of life
A splendid beacon in this world of strife;
And when, to thee recalled, he sinks in death,
May prayer and praise still bless his parting
breath.

ANON.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA

RUSSELL.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
Midst the echoes of long lost melodies,

And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours

When the love of our souls was on leaves and

flowers;

When a world was our own in some dim sweet

grove,

And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone! can we think it, while thou art

there,

Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?

Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on

thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine;

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have lingered before thee, and turned and
borne

One vision away of the cloudless morn.

THE SLEEPER.

BABY mine-thou sleepest
In thy long white shroud,
While thy mother keepest
Watch the while, and weepest-
Low awhile, till memories crowd,
And her grief will cry aloud;
Yet thou stirrest ne'er the more,
Still thou sleepest as before.

HEMANS.

40

THE SLEEPER.

Thy father, he returneth,
My babe, what shall I say?
Look up! thy father mourneth
His absence, while he burneth
To sport him in thine infant play;
Wake, baby mine; this voiceless clay
I cannot offer him for thee,

The babe he left so full of glee!

"Where hast thou laid my darling one,
My beautiful?" he'll cry,

"Where hath our gentle angel gone?"
How can I see him thus, alone?
I dare not meet thy father's eye;
O death! I loved too trustfully!
O life! I knew not of love's store,
I thought not I could love thee more!
Wake up! this is not death!
Thou wert so full of glee,

I cannot think, for all it saith,
Such love can hang upon a breath;
Thou art too beautiful to be

By ruthless spoiler snatched from me!
Thy father cometh! wake my child!
Look as when last on him thou smiled.

Vain, vain deceit of grief!

Thou wilt no more revive;

Vain show of unbelief,

Vain hope, too blind and brief!

Come, my beloved, look our last,
The bitterness of death is past;
Thou wak'st again no more to me,

But I, my babe, shall wake with thee.

EDITOR.

POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY.

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children young and gay?

Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But then there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,

Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.