My thoughts, turned off from earth, like thine,
"Commercing with the skies,"

Till all the Majesty Divine
Grow radiant, to mine eyes.

Sweet angel, I will ever pray,
TO JESUS meek and mild,
That I may be, from day to day,
Still more, His "little child."
So, through the Cross, such grace to me,
May graciously be given,

That thou for me, may'st always see
My FATHER's face, in Heaven.

THE BREAKERS, June, 1853.

THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM-BY CRAWFORD.

TO S. P. C.

SWEET maiden, I would be like thee,

As heavenward, eye, and thought, and heart;

And foot, as lightly, to the earth,

Like greyhound, straining on the start;

As closely to the Cross, I'd cling,
And lean as simply on its stay;
The things of earth, all thistle down,
As hindrances, along my way.

Sweet maiden, by that scollop shell,

Thy thoughts are, where the Saviour lay;
And towards His tomb, thy steps are bent,
To wait, and watch, and weep, and pray;
And I, my heart, would bury, there,
As dead to self, as dead to sin;

With thee, His Cross, on earth, to bear,
With thee, His Crown, in heaven, to win.

1853.

POEMS.

TO MY SWEET GRAND-DAUGHTER,

ELIZA GREENE DOANE,

ON HER BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY.

SWEET baby, when thy father
Was granted to our love,
We hailed him, as a blessed streak
Of sunshine, from above:
And all his life, he still has shed
His sunshine, on our way:
And cheered us, with his brightness,
Through the dark, and cloudy day.

Now, two and twenty winters

Have heaped on us their snows:
And, down the hill of life, our feet
Are tottering to repose:
When, once again, the love of God,
Upon our path, has smiled,

In the sunshine of our sunshine,
Our Willie's darling child.

Thou meek and gentle Jesus,
We bring her to be Thinė:
Baptized into the blessed name,
Of Thine eternal Trine :

And humbly, we implore Thy grace,

To keep her for Thine own;
And guide us all, to meet, at last,
Before Thy glorious throne.

RIVERSIDE, ST. ANDREW'S DAY, 1854.

THE NEW CRADLE.

A very little boy, whose infant brother had died the day before, being asked where he was, sweetly replied, “Asleep, up stairs, in his new cradle.”

"ASLEEP, in his new cradle "-
How beautiful the thought,
Thy childhood, in its simpleness,
From nature's heart, has caught:
A reach, our "Sweetest Shakspeare,”
Himself, has failed to win;

And one, whose truthful tenderness
Must make "the world, all kin."

"Asleep, in his new cradle "-
Sad mother, dry your tears;
In this, your heart-bereavement,
God's tenderest love appears:
The cradle, you provided,

From death, could not be free;
Your loveliest has now secured
His immortality.

"Asleep, in his new cradle "

He wakes in Paradise;

The lullabies of nature,

Lost, in its symphonies:
Among the holy children,
In pastures green, he plays;
Or joins, with lisping accents,
In the music of their lays.

"Asleep, in his new cradle "—
He waits for you to come,
From earth, its sins and sorrows,

To his bright and happy home;
Till the resurrection-breaking,

God's loved ones, all, shall bring,
And the dead in Christ, awaking,

Reign with their Saviour-King.
RIVERSIDE, SEPTUAGESIMA, 1855.

POEMS.

FANNY'S GRAVE.

"There's pansies, that's for thoughts."-Ophelia, in Hamlet.
"A most unspotted lily."-Cranmer, in Henry VIII.

UPON our darling Fanny's grave,

The Pansies are in bloom:

What sweetest thoughts, unbidden, spring,
Beside her sacred tomb!
Forever, shall my memory dwell,

Upon that peaceful spot:
For one, so loved, my faithful heart
Needs no "forget me not!"

The lilies of the valley wave,
At Fanny's dearest feet:

While she, on flowers immortal, treads,

A thousand times more sweet.

Still may her loveliness attract

Our thoughts, and hearts above;

Till, through the Cross she clasped, we join
The Lily of our love!

WHITSUNDAY, 1855.

THE EYES OF THE ANGELS.

A little child was disappointed, when her mother told her what the stars were She said, "I thought they were the eyes of angels.”

"MOTHER, What are those little things,

That twinkle from the skies?"

"The Stars, my child!" "I thought, Mother,
They were the angels' eyes.

"They look down on me, so like yours,

As beautiful, and mild;

When, by my crib, you used to sit,

And watch your feverish child.

"And, always, when I shut my eyes,
And said my little prayers,
I felt so safe: because I knew,
That they had opened theirs."

RIVERSIDE, Monday BEFORE EASTER, 1855.

"MY LOVE LIES BLEEDING."

THAT melancholy Amaranth;

It haunts me all the day,

With memories of "my birdie love,"
Now "flying," far away.
"Where is my precious baby' gone?"

Rings out, on all the air;
And stillness stuns my ear, the while;
Till echo answers "where?"

My Lizzie "birdie " nestles, now,
Upon the sounding shore;

Yet, still, her flute-notes sweet, I hear,

Through all the breakers' roar:

And, when she spreads her dovelike wings,

The foaming surge, to brave:

With plumes, like "yellow gold," she seems
An angel on the wave.

That melancholy Amaranth,

With pendant, purple flowers,

Like weeping-willow, stands to mark,

The graves, of parted hours.

Far, far, away, "my birdie love"

Is "plashing" in the sea;

"My love lies bleeding," all that's left,

To solitude and me.

August 15, 1856.

*The common name, for the flower, known to botanists, as

Melancholicus;

"Amaranthus

a favourite flower of the little grand-child, to whom these lines were written. The words in quotation, in these two pieces, are the baby language that they used together.