The laughter which no half-belief

In wrath could all suppress;

The falling tears, which looked like grief, And were but gentleness:

The fancies sent, for bliss, abroad,

As Eden's were not doneMistaking still the cherub's sword For shining of the sun!

The sportive speech with wisdom in 't-
The question strange and bold—
The childish fingers in the print

Of God's creative hold:

The praying words in whispers said,
The sin with sobs confest;
The leaning of the young meek head
Upon the Saviour's breast!

The gentle consciousness of praise,
With hues that went and came ;
The brighter blush, a word could raise,
Were that a father's name!

The shadow on thy smile for each
That on his face could fall!

So quick hath love been thee to teach,
What soon it teacheth all.

Sit still as erst beside his feet!

The future days are dim,

But those will seem to thee most sweet
Which keep thee nearest him!
Sit at his feet in quiet mirth,

And let him see arise

A clearer sun and greener earth
Within thy loving eyes!-

Ah, loving eyes! that used to lift
Your childhood to my face-
That leave a memory on the gift,
I look on in your place

May bright-eyed hosts your guardians be
From all but thankful tears,-

While, brightly as ye turned on me,

Ye meet th' advancing years!

A DIRGE.

"The only son of his mother; and she was a widow."

MISS S. J. WILLIAMS.

I LOST him in untainted youth,
While life to him was fair;
The star of hope, the glow of truth,
The smile of love were there.

No care had furrowed his young cheek,
No grief had dimmed his eye;
He faded as the rose-leaves seek
A turf where they must lie.

I craved that mine own hand might close

The veil above his face ;

I left him to the deep repose

Of death's lone dwelling-place.

I turned away from that fresh mould,
A cloud was on my heart;

Then first the dreadful truth seemed told,
That we indeed must part.

Thenceforth I loathed the cheerful day—
Night seemed to me less dim;

I loathed the lovely and the gay,-
They spoke to me of him.

I loathed the laughing flowers-the sound
Of nature's morning song-

The little glistening rills, that bound
The whispering woods among.

I shunned the infant's tuneful voice,
That love or care would crave :
How could I hear a child rejoice,
When mine was in the grave!

Its plaintive tone, its merry bound,
Its peaceful evening hymn,

Had all to me one only sound,
They spoke to me of him.

I laid my hand upon a book,
Disused since my distress ;
I sat me down therein to look,
From very weariness.

Oft had I read that book before

With half-averted eye,

And closed it, when my task was o'er,
Coldly and carelessly.

But then my mind dwelt on the words
With long and earnest gaze;

A breath swept o'er its broken chords
Of harmony and praise.

I read of long-enduring love,
Of hopefulness and trust,
Of the quiet of the world above,
Of meetings of the just.

A change came o'er my spirit then,
A light was on my path ;
I looked upon the world again,
In the blessedness of faith.

I loved a happy sound-my boy,
His welcome when we met,
His tones of sweetness and of joy
I did not then forget.

But when I saw young children seem

To revel in delight,

I thought what mother's eyes would gleam With rapture at the sight.

I welcomed the returning sun
To scenes so lately dim;
The flowers reviving one by one,
They spoke to me of him.