O, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will

be;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose

him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of

three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee :

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;

But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love :

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I can

not tell,

For they reckon not by years and months where he has gone to dwell.

To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were given,

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of

flesh,

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their

glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother

dear and I,)

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.

It

may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from

bliss may sever,

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,

O! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled our home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair, sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight;
Where are those dreamers now?

They have passed, they have passed away, who

played

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent knee.