Mid the sinless little children,

Who have heard his

Come to me!'

'Yond the shades of death's still valley,

Now ye lean upon

his breast,

Where the wicked dare not enter,

And the weary rest.

MOIR.

Even with the certainty of marring the exquisite beauty of this little poem, I have ventured to substitute for the fifth stanza, as it stands in the original, another, whose poetic merit consists only in what it has borrowed from that, but which seems to me to convey a truer sentiment with regard to that solemn event, which, as the greatest, must be the most beautiful, circumstance of our earthly lot; and to invest which with images of gloom and terror seems as much at variance with the trustful spirit of Christianity, as it is accordant with the practice of Christendom. Such a stanza as this fails to express our best thought:

'Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death.
Fearful, awful Desolation

On our lintel set his sign;

And we turned from his sad death-bed,

Willie, round to thine!

MARY'S SMILE.

FOR many an anxious, weary day
Not one glad smile is seen to play
Around this pallid face;

For here disease has set its seal,

And slowly from the features steal

Each beam, each radiant

grace.

The languid form, the drooping eye,
The fevered lip and frequent sigh
Speak to us of decay;

And while we watch her fluttering breath,
It seems the angel-wing of Death

To bear her soul away.

All tenderest thoughts are inly stirred,
And prayer ascends, although unheard
Save by the Ever-nigh,

That He, who watches over all,

And sees the sparrows when they fall,
Would listen to our cry;

And save this gentle babe from death,
And give again the healthful breath
Which seems so nearly spent ;
That all the joys which she may bring,
And all the hopes which round her cling
May longer still be lent,

But see! a light is round her playing,
Its radiance o’er her features straying,—
A smile is on her brow;

As if too full of Heaven it were
To linger for a moment there,

'Tis seen-and vanished now.

Does some kind spirit whisper there
Of happy home, a Father's care,
And bliss to be revealed?
Or does some angel-form appear
That little fainting heart to cheer,

From our dull sense concealed?

We may not pierce the thoughts which lie, Deep hidden in their mystery,

Within the infant soul;

Nor search among the treasures rare
Which may be fitly garnered there,
Untouched by earth's control.

That token-smile may dimly show
Deep things, we cannot clearly know
By earthly stains defiled;

If, trustless, we in anguish sore
Should grieve to see her face no more,
Yet happy is the child,

LINES TO MY CHILDREN.*

My babes! no more I'll behold ye!
Little think ye how he, ye once loved,
Your father, who oft did enfold ye
With all that a parent ere proved,

How with many a pang he is saddened,
How many a tear he has shed,

For the eight human blossoms that gladdened
His path, and his table, and bed;

And who-can I finish my story!

Has seen them all shrink from his grasp;

Departed the crown of his glory;

No wife and no children to clasp.

Ah! all the dear names I have uttered,
And all the most sacred caresses,
The frolicsome nothings I've muttered,
In a mood that sheds tears while it blesses;

The kisses so fond I have given,

The plump little arm's cleaving twine, The bright eye, whose language was heaven, The rose on the cheek pressed to mine;

Its warmth that seemed pregnant with spirit ;The little feet's fond interlacing,

While others pressed forward to inherit
The place of the one thus embracing;

The breast that with pleasure was troubled
Since no words were to speak it availing,
Till the bliss of the heart was redoubled
As in smiles on the lips 'twas exhaling;

The girl, who to sleep when consigned,
The promised kiss still recollected;
And no sleep on her pillow could find

If her father's farewell were neglected;

Who asked me, when infancy's terrors
Assailed her, to sit by her bed;
And for the past day's little errors

On my cheek tears of penitence shed;

Those innocent tears of repentance,

More pure e'en than smiles without sin, Since they mark with what delicate sentence Childhood's conscience pronounces within ;

The dear little forms, one by one,

Some in beds closely-coupled half sleeping,While the cribbed infant nestled alone— Whose heads, at my coming, all peeping,

Betrayed that the pulse of each heart

Of my foot's stealing fall knew the speech; While all would not let me depart,

Till the kiss was bestowed upon each;