We ask no more. We trust that He, who leads
The footsteps of the feeble lamb, will hold
This lamb of ours in mercy's pasture fold,

Where every inmate near the loving Shepherd feeds.

WEE WILLIE.

FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest,

Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!

He who lent thee hath recalled thee

Back with him and his to dwell.

Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit joined the seraphs,
And thy dust the dead.

Like a sunbeam through our dwelling
Shone thy presence bright and calm!
Thou didst add a zest of pleasure;
To our sorrows thou wert balm —

Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech

Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture

Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
With thy fine, fair locks outspread,
Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who from heaven to earth had strayed; And, entranced, we watched the vision, Half in hope and half affright,

Lest what we deemed ours, and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds obscured the sky,
When the first drear doubt oppressed us,
That our child was doomed to die!
Through each long night-watch the taper
Showed the hectic of thy cheek,

And each anxious dawn beheld thee
More worn out and weak.

'T was e'en then Destruction's angel Shook his pinions o'er our path,

Seized the rosiest of our household,

And struck Charlie down in death, Fearful, awful Desolation

On our lintel set his sign;

And we turned from his sad death-bed, Willie, round to thine!

As the beams of Spring's first morning Through the silent chamber played, Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, And in thy small coffin laid;

Ere the day-star with the darkness

Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven!

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes and hearts and hearth;

Two asleep lie buried under,

Three for us yet gladden earth: Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie, Willie, thee our snow-drop pure, Back to us shall second spring-time Never more allure!

Yet while thinking, O our lost ones!

Of how dear ye were to us,

Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus?
Why across the cold, dim churchyard
Flit our visions of despair?
Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel
Says, "Ye are not there!"

Where, then, are ye? With the Saviour

Blest, forever blest, are ye,

'Mid the sinless, little children,

Who have heard his "Come to me!"

'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast,

Where the wicked dare not enter,

And the weary rest!

We are wicked,

we are weary,

For us pray, and for us plead;

God, who ever hears the sinless,
May through you the sinful heed;
Pray that through Christ's mediation,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye may be sent to greet us
At the gates of Heaven!

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to her bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set

By love and agony!

Temple and tower have mouldered,
Empires from earth have passed,

And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image

Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survives the proud memorials reared

By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou calmly slumbering

Upon thy mother's breast,

When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?