LITTLE MARY'S GRAVE.

BORN, AUGUST 18, 1888, DIED, JAN. 18, 1844.

Ir was a sweet autumnal day;
The rustling leaves, around me lay;
The landscape, bathed in golden light,
As heaven itself, was fair and bright.

I waited for a funeral train:

And, sauntering through the Church-yard lane, My thoughtful feet, instinctive, strayed,

To where a darling child was laid.

Sweet Mary! I remember well,
How like a blessing, first, she fell;
And on a joyous summer day,
Sweet flower, sweet bud, together lay.
And, well do I remember, too,
When wintry winds around us, blew,
We bore our summer bud, away,
Its sweetness, in the snow, to lay.

She was a most attractive child :
So gay, so free, so meek, so mild;
A lovely, little, loving thing,

Among the heart-strings, made to cling.
Her childish fancy took to me:

She loved, to hang upon my knee;

And win, with many an artless wile,
The kiss, that crowned the sunny smile.
I hear her flute-like accents, now,

I see the beaming, on her brow,
As from her little door-way seat,

She hailed, with glee, my passing feet,
As bright and glad, as any bird,
Could she but win one kindly word.

Sweet Mary, years have come, and gone,

Since last I heard thy loving tone;

1850.

And time, and toil, and care, have shed
The snows of winter, on my head:
Yet while I stand, beside thee, here,
And brush away the starting tear,
I hear, again, thy bird-like voice,
And, in thy childish love, rejoice.

Sweet Mary, thou art, now, with God!
We linger, yet, along the road:

Oh! that the echoes of thy speech,

Our struggling hearts, from heaven, might reach;
To win us, from the things of earth,

To thoughts and themes, of holier birth;

To teach us, to count all things loss;
For His dear sake, who bore the Cross:
That, all who loved thee, here, may be,
Through Him, at last, in Heaven, with thee!

THE MOTHER, AT THE GRAVE OF HER CHILD.

OUR little Mary is not dead; but, sweetly gone before,
She waits, to win, and welcome us, upon that happy shore:
To win us, with the memories, that linger, of her love;
And welcome us, to share, with her, the blessedness, above.

She is our little Mary, still, and never can grow old;

As young, as when the angel came, and took her, from our fold;
Made like unto the Mary-born, the only Undefiled,
She lives, in heaven's unchanging youth, our own immortal
child.

Our dear ones, all, are growing up in beauty and in grace;
In manhood, and in womanhood, to fill, please God, their place;
But, whatsoever He may take, of all, that He has given,
One gift of His, we cannot lose, our little one in heaven.

RIVERSIDE, January 13, 1851.

*FICUS RELIGIOSA.

THE Banyan of the Indian Isles,
Strikes deeply down, its massive root ;
And spreads its branching life, abroad,

And bends, to earth, with scarlet fruit:
And, when the branches reach the ground,
They firmly plant themselves, again:
Then rise, and spread, and droop, and root;
An ever green, and endless, chain.

And, so, the Church of Jesus Christ,
The blessed Banyan of our God,
Fast rooted, upon Sion's Mount,

Has sent its sheltering arms, abroad;
And every branch, that, from it, springs,
In sacred beauty, spreading wide,
As, low, it bends, to bless the earth,
Still, plants another, by its side.

Long, as the world, itself, shall last,

The sacred Banyan, still, shall spread;
From clime to clime, from age to age,

Its sheltering shadow shall be shed;
Nations shall seek its "pillared shade,”

Its leaves shall, for their healing, be:
The circling flood, that feeds its life,
The blood, that crimsoned Calvary.
RIVERSIDE, 2d Sunday after Easter, 1851.

WILLIAM CROSWELL,

POET, PASTOR, PRIEST,

ENTERED INTO LIFE, SUNDAY 9 NOVEMBER, 21 AFTER TRINITY, 1851.

I DID not think to number thee, my Croswell, with the dead,
But counted on thy loving lips, to soothe my dying bed;
To watch the fluttering flood of life, ebb languidly away,
And point my spirit, to the gate, that opens into day.

*Written for the third Jubilee of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

My "more than brother" thou hast been, for five and twenty

years,

In storm and shine, in grief and joy, alike in smiles and tears;
Our twin-born hearts, so perfectly incorporate in one,
That not the shadow of a thought, e'er marred their unison.

Beside me, in life's highest noon, to hear the bridegroom's voice,
Thy loving nature fondly stood, contented to rejoice;
Nor boon, that ever bounteous Heaven bestowed on me, or mine,
But bore for thee, a keener joy, than if it had been thine.

Thy fingers, at the sacred font, when God my hearth had blessed, Upon my first-born's brow, the dear baptismal sign, impressed ; My second-born, thine own in Christ, our loving names to blend, And knit, for life, his father's son, in with his father's friend.

And when our patriarchal White, with apostolic hands, Committed to my trembling trust the Saviour's dread commands, Thy manly form, and saintly face, were at my side again— Thy voice, a trumpet to my heart, in its sincere Amen!

Beside thee once again, be mine, accepted priest, to stand, And take, with thee, the pastoral palm, from that dear Shepherd's hand;

As thou hast followed Him, be mine, in love, to follow thee, Nor care, how soon my course be run; so thine, my rest may be.

O beautiful and glorious death! with all thy armour on; While, Stephen-like, thy placid face, out, like an angel's shone. The words of blessing on thy lips, had scarcely ceased to sound,* Before thy gentle soul, with them, its resting place had found.

O pastoral and priestly death! poetic as thy life

A little child to shelter, in Christ's fold, from sin and strife; † Then, by the gate, that opens through the Cross, for such as she, To enter in thyself, with Christ, forevermore to be!

RIVERSIDE, Novemher 10, 1851.

* Unable to rise after the closing collect, he said the benediction on his knees. He died in two hours. A blood vessel was ruptured in his brain.

He had just baptized an infant; and his sermon was addressed to children.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

I have, somewhere, met with an old legend, that a robin, hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our dear Saviour's crown; and dyed his bosom, with the blood; and, that, from that time, robins have been the friends of man.

SWEET Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there, upon the day,
The Christ was crowned, in cruel scorn;
And bore away, one bleeding thorn:
That, so, the blush, upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow, was impressed;
And, thence, thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.

Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
Bathed, in my Saviour's blood, like thee;
Bear, in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the Cross;
Live, ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship, with human kind;
And take my pattern, still, from thee,
In gentleness, and constancy.

RIVERSIDE, Conversion of St. Paul, 1852.

SARAH WALLACE GERMAIN,

DIED AT ST. MARY'S HALL, ON THE EVE OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, 1852, IN THE 15TH YEAR OF HER AGE,

"These are they which follow the Lamb, whithersoever He goeth."

WEEP not for her, the dear lamb we have folded,
Safe from the serpent, secure from the bear;
Gone to the source, where her being was moulded,
She recks not of sorrow, and dreams not of care.
Through the green pastures, with skies ever vernal,

By the still waters, her footsteps now rove;
Led by the Shepherd, whose name is Eternal,

Her loveliness lives in the light of His love.