How many a tearful longing look
In silence seeks thee yet,
Where, in its own familiar nook,

Thy fireside chair is set?

And oft when little voices dim
Are feeling for the note

In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,
And wavering wildly float,

Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought
Of her who led the strain,

How oft such music home she brought-
But ne'er shall bring again.

O say not so, the spring-tide air

Is fraught with whisperings sweet ;
Who knows but heavenly carols there
With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour,
The pure and child-like dead
May linger, where, in shrine or bower,
The mourner's prayer is said?

And He who willed thy tender frame
(O stern, yet sweet decree !)
Should wear the Martyr's robe of flame,

He hath prepared for thee

A garland in that region bright
Where infant spirits reign,

Tinged faintly with such golden light

As crowns his Martyr train.

Nay, doubt it not: his tokens sure
Were round her death-bed shown:
The wasting pain might not endure,
'Twas calm ere life had flown,

Even as we read of saints of yore:
Her heart and voice were free

To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her mother's knee.

JOHN KEBLE.

ON THE DEATH OF TWO LITTLE
CHILDREN.

AH! bitter chance! no arm the blow could ward

Or shield from hurt her guileless infant breast,

New to this perilous world, and daily prest

To a fond mother's heart; her lot looks hard;
But lo! her face is calm-a gentle tone

Seems murmuring from those lips that breathe no

more,

'Come, little sister, marked for heaven before, I crave that hand yet smaller than mine own, That baby-hand to clasp again in mine!'

Sweet spirit! as thou wishest it shall be ;

Death drops his wing on younger heads than thine,
Though thine is of the youngest; soon to thee
The little sister of thy soul shall come,

And one low funeral bell shall bring ye home

CHARLES TURNER.

ON AN INFANT.

WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM.

BE, rather than be called, a child of God!'

Death whispered ;—with assenting nod,

Its head upon its mother's breast

The baby bowed, without demur

Of the kingdom of the Blest

Possessor, not inheritor.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEridge.

THE DEATH OF BABE CHRISTABEL.

WITH

ITH her white hands claspt she sleepeth; heart is husht and lips are cold;

Death shrouds up her heaven of beauty, and a weary way I go,

Like the sheep without a shepherd on the wintry norland wold

With the face of day shut out by blinding snow.

O'er its widowed nest my heart sits moaning for its young that's fled

From this world of wail and weeping, gone to join

her starry peers ;

And my light of life's o'ershadowed where the dear one lieth dead,

And I'm crying in the dark with many fears.

All last night-tide she seemed near me, like a lost beloved bird,

Beating at the lattice louder than the sobbing wind and rain;

And I called across the night with tender name and fondling word;

And I yearned out thro' the darkness, all in vain.

Heart will plead, 'Eyes cannot see her: they are blind with tears of pain ;'

And it climbeth up and straineth, for dear life to look and hark

While I call her once again: but there cometh no

refrain,

And it droppeth down, and dieth in the dark.

In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies,
The Angels with us unawares.

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death !
Shall light thy dark up like a star,

A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually,

And glitters thro' the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes

To light us o'er the Jasper Sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf,

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;
And, ready for the harvest-home,

His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled :
Awhile she sat with folded wings,
Sang round us a few hoverings,
Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-winged Angels nurture her;

With heaven's white radiance robed and crowned,

And all Love's purple glory round,

She summers on the Hills of Myrrh.

Through childhood's morning-land, serene
She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love;
While, in a robe of light above,
Her better Angel walkt unseen,

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The Angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled
To the great ocean, on whose shore
We wander up and down to store
Some treasures of the times of old: