Dew-diadem'd; the perfumed Pink, that studs
The earth with clustering ruby; Hyacinth,
The hue of Venus' tresses; Myrtle green,
That maidens think a charm for constant love,
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream;
Fair Lily woman's emblem, and oft twined
Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen,
Such is their whiteness; downcast Violet,
Turning away its sweet head from the wind,
As she her delicate and startled ear
From passion's tale!

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 :
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

dwell.

to

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 number'd 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 bless'd 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.