She sits beneath the elder shade in that long mortal

swoon,

And piteously on her wan cheek looks down the gentle

moon;

And when her senses are restored, whom sees she at

her side,

But her, believed in childhood to have wandered off and

died!

In these small hands, so lily-white, is water from the

spring,

And a grateful coolness drops from it, as from an angel's wing,

And to her mother's pale lips her rosy lips are laid, While these long, soft eye-lashes drop tears on her hoary head.

She stirs not in her child's embrace, but yields her old grey hairs,

Unto the heavenly dew of tears, the heavenly breath of prayers;.

No voice hath she to bless her child, till that strong fit

go by,

But gazeth on the long-lost face and then upon the sky.

The Sabbath morn was beautiful, and the long Sabbath

day;

The evening star rose beautiful, when daylight died

away;

Morn, day, and twilight, this lone glen flowed over with delight,

But the fulness of all mortal joy. hath blessed the

Sabbath night.

WILSON.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaped the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grew between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he,
"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"The Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they

Where he was once a child.

They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love,

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day!

'Twas an Angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

LONGFELLOW.

TO J. G. S.

I saw a young and tender tree,

Where leaves were few, and fruit was none, Raising its green and slender stalk

To imbibe the dew, and feel the sun ;
And such, dear little boy, e'en now,
In helpless infancy, art thou !

I saw a noisy little stream,

Leaping and sparkling all the day,
Heaven's light reflected from its waves,
As clear and fast they sped away;
And such, glad, playful boy, e'en now,
In sportive infancy, art thou!

I saw a beauteous summer cloud,
Changing with every passing breeze,
Now darkening, like the twilight's fall,
Now fair as gems in Persian seas;

And such, my April boy, e'en now,
In fickle infancy, art thou!

The stately tree, through shine and storm,
Shall rear its fair and useful form;

The river, rolling far and wide,

Shall bless the nations with its tide ;

The cloud, which seems of little worth,

Shall join the showers which glad the earth; And thus, dear boy, we trust to see

Bright promises fulfilled in thee!

“THOU ART SAFE IN HEAVEN, MY DOVE!”

THOU darling child! through many an hour
I've watched thy frolic play,

And wished that I had but the power
To bid thy light heart stay;

To keep thee still that lovely thing,

So frank and undefiled,

Pure as bright waters at their spring,

A glad, confiding child.

And when that sweet-toned voice sang out

Its varied notes of glee,

I've hoped that ne'er a sadder thought

Than those might come to thee.

When sped thy joy-winged footsteps fast,
Springing so free and light,

Wished chains were all around them cast
To keep thee in the right.

When that full heart, which warmed towards all,
Poured forth affection's flow,

I've grieved that ever there should fall
A chill on that pure glow.

The trustless prayer, alas, would rise,
That grief thou ne'er should'st know!
And ne'er be dimmed those sparkling eyes
By bitter floods of woe.

'Tis done!-and now the seal is set,
Which keeps thee always bright;
The soul, which has been stainless yet,
Shall never feel earth's blight.

O not by means we would devise
Art thou secured from ill!—
Yet never can one murmur rise ;-
It is our Father's will.

"IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD."

WE wake, but hear no morning song,
Pouring its rich, clear tide along

From childhood's merry voice;