32 LOVE'S LAST BEQUEST. The heart grows richer for life's stint, Even as the winter's snows disclose When Nature is all hopefulness, With the tear and smile of healthfulness, The gushing pulse of life, Then seemeth me these wildlings, Young firstlings of the spring; Like that orphan babe, Love's last bequest, Hope's dearest offering. A frail thing that hath scarcely scaped Yet the more dear and beautiful A thing, though looking tearfully A glad one that shall yet awake Joy, like the sunbursts, that in spring Come when the rain-clouds part, Shall make the autumn of his days O gay young wildling of the spring, Through summer's flowers, and autumn's fruit, To thy bright futurity! TO T. L. H., EDITOR. SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, And balmy rest about thee Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, Thy thanks to all that aid, Thy heart in pain and weakness, C The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, Ah, first-born of thy mother, Kind playmate of thy brother, My light, whene'er I go, To say "he has departed" "His voice"-" his face"-is gone; To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on; Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping! LEIGH HUNT. THE LITTLE SHROUD. SHE put him on a snow-white shroud, A chaplet on his head; And gathered only primroses To scatter o'er the dead. She laid him in his little grave- When spring was putting forth its flowers, 36 THE LITTLE SHROUD. She had lost many children-now The last of them was gone; And, day and night, she sat and wept One midnight, while her constant tears She heard a voice, and, lo! her child His shroud was damp, his face was white; He said "I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet; Oh, mother, do not weep!" Oh, love is strong!-the mother's heart Oh, love is strong;-and for her child One eve a light shone round her bed, "Lo! mother, see my shroud is dry, |