DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

71

Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud.

It came at length-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,

And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow-the deepest-and the last.

In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping head

A moment more—the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

Thy gentle mother turned away, to hide her face from me,

And murmured low of Heaven's behests—and bliss

attained by thee.

She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,

Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine.

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest-and from thine infant brow

Culled one soft lock of radiant hair-our only solace

now;

Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers, not more fair and sweet

Twin rose-buds in thy little hands-and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,

With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,

They never can replace the bud our early fondness nursed

They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee -the first!

The first! how many a memory bright, that one sweet word can bring,

Of hopes that blossomed-drooped and died, in life's delightful spring ;—

Of fervid feelings past away-those early seeds of bliss,

That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this.

My sweet one-my sweet one, my fairest and

first,

my

When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst!

But beams of gladness, through the gloom, their soothing influence dart,

And my sighs are hushed-my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art.

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,

With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth

God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,

And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my fairest and

my first.

ALARIC A. WATTS.

THE DYING CHILD.

73

THE DYING CHILD.

THUS happily they lived,

Till in their arms, a second pleasant babe,
With a faint smile, intelligent began

To answer theirs; and, with a brighter, that
Of his fond sister, standing by his side,
With frequent kisses, prattling in his face:
While in its features, with parental joy
And love connubial, they began to mark
Theirs intermingled; when, with sudden stroke,
The blooming infant faded, and expired,
And soon its lonely sister, doubly dear
Now in their grief, was in like manner torn
From their united grasp. With patience far
Beyond her years, the little sufferer bore
Her sharp distemper, while she could behold
Both parents by her side; but, when from sleep,
Transient and troubled, waking, wept aloud,
As terrified if either were not there.

To hear their voices singing of the love
Of her Redeemer, in her favourite hymn,
And praying for his mercy, oft she asked
With eagerness, and seemed the while at ease.
When come the final struggle, with the look
Of a grieved child, and with its mournful cry,
But still with something of her wonted tone

Of confidence in danger, as for help

She called on them, on both alternately
As if by turns expecting that relief

From each, the other had grown slow to yield;
At which their calmness, undisturbed till then,
Gave way to agitation past control.

A few heart-rending moments, and her voice
Sunk to a weak and inarticulate moan,

Then in a whisper ended; and with that
Her features grew composed and fixed in death;
At sight of which their lost tranquillity

At once returned. 'Twas evening; and the lamp
Yet near, shone full upon her placid face,
Its snowy white illuming, while they stood
Gazing as on her loveliness in sleep-
The enfeebled mother, on the father's arm
Heavily hanging, like the slender flower
On its firm prop, when loaded down with rain
Or morning dew.

WILCOX.

I SEE, when I have but a short journey to travel, I am quickly at home. If my life be but my walk, and heaven my home, why should I desire a long journey? I could not be weary with a long walk, but yet the shorter my journey, the sooner my WARWICK.

rest.

WHAT IS DEATH?

75

MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH?

"MOTHER, how still the baby lies,
I cannot hear his breath;
I cannot see his laughing eyes—
They tell me this is DEATH.

"My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me-he is dead.

"They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now;

That God will bless him in the skies-
O, mother, tell me how ?”

"Daughter, do you remember dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,—
A withered worm, you thought!

"I told you that Almighty power Could break that withered shell, And show you in a future hour,

Something to please you well.