Then, mother, little Charlie came,-
Our beautiful fair boy,

With my own father's cherished name;
But, oh! he brought no joy; my child
Brought mourning, and no joy.

His little grave I cannot see,
Though weary months have sped
Since pitying lips bent over me,

And whispered, "He is dead!" Mother,
"Tis dreadful to be dead!

I do not mean for one like me,
So weary, worn, and weak:
Death's shadowy paleness seems to be
E'en now upon my cheek; his seal
On form and brow and cheek.

But for a bright-winged bird like him

To hush his joyous song, And, prisoned in a coffin dim,

Join Death's pale phantom throng!—my boy To join that grisly throng!

O mother! I can scarcely bear

To think of this to-day;

It was so exquisitely fair,

That little form of clay, my heart

Still lingers by his clay.

And, when for one loved far, far more,
Come thickly-gathering tears,

My star of faith is clouded o'er ;

I sink beneath my fears, sweet friend! — My heavy weight of fears.

Oh but to feel thy fond arms twine
Around me once again!

It almost seems those lips of thine

Might kiss away the pain, might soothe

This dull, cold, heavy pain.

But, gentle mother! through life's storms

I may not lean on thee;

For helpless, cowering little forms

Cling trustingly to me. Poor babes!
To have no guide but me!

With weary foot and broken wing,
With bleeding heart and sore,
Thy dove looks backward, sorrowing,

But seeks the ark no more,

thy breast

Seeks never, never more.

Sweet mother! for thy wanderer pray,

That loftier faith be given;

Her broken reeds all swept away,

That she may lean on Heaven, — her heart

Grow strong in Christ and Heaven.

Once, when young Hope's fresh morning dew

Lay sparkling on my breast,

My bounding heart thought but to do,

To work, at Heaven's behest: my pains

Come at the same behest.

All fearfully, all tearfully,

Alone and sorrowing,

My dim eye lifted to the sky,

Fast to the cross I cling, -O Christ!

To thy dear cross I cling.

THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING.

WE come not with a costly store,
O Lord! like them of old,
The masters of the starry lore

From Ophir's shore of gold. No weepings of the incense-tree Are with the gifts we bring; No odorous myrrh of Araby Blends with our offering.

But still our love would bring its best,

A spirit keenly tried

By fierce Affliction's fiery test,

And seven times purified.

The fragrant graces of the mind,

The virtues that delight

To give their pérfume out, will find

Acceptance in thy sight.

SONNET.

WHEN first I looked into thy glorious eyes,
And saw with their unearthly beauty pained
Heaven deepening with heaven, like the skies
Of autumn nights without a shadow stained,
I stood as one whom some strange dream inthralls;
For, far away,
in some lost life divine, ·
Some land which every glorious dream recalls,-
A spirit looked on me with eyes like thine.
E'en now, though Death has veiled their starry
light,

And closed their lids in his relentless night,
As some strange dream, remembered in a dream,
Again I see, in sleep, their tender beam;
Unfading hopes their cloudless azure fill;

Heaven deepening within heaven, serene and still.