Yes-with the quiet dead,

Baby! thy rest shall be― Oh! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling!

Flee to thy grassy nest;

There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow
Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! thy little bosom Labours with shortening breath— Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh!

Those are the damps of death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me!

Thine up-turned eyes glazed over,
Like hare-bells wet with dew;

Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open—
Thy soft lip quivering,

As if like summer air

Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul was fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit! hence depart!
And is this death ?—dread thing!—

If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face:
So passionless, so pure!
The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling-place.

Thou weepest, childless mother!

Aye weep, 'twill ease thine heart;

He was thy first-born son,

Thy first, thine only son,

"Tis hard from him to part.

'Tis hard to lay thy darling

Deep in the damp cold earth—

His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber,

His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then waken with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why)
A dull, heart-sinking weight,
Till memory on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,
That thou art desolate!

And then to lie and weep,

And think the livelong night
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)
Of every past delight;

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry-
And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling

That mingle with the tears

And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!
In after years look back—
Time brings such wondrous easing-
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on thy gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, "My first-born blessing,

It almost broke my heart
When thou wert forced to go;
And yet for thee I know,
'Twas better to depart.

"God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory—

And thou art sanctified.

"I look around and see

The evil ways of men ; And, oh! beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then.

"The little arms that clasped me,

The innocent hands that press'd— Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore,

I lulled thee on my breast?

“Now like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone,

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove
Safe with the Source of Love,

The Everlasting One.

"And when the hour arrives
From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await
The first at Heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me."

THE MILLENNIUM.
Moore.

BUT who shall see the glorious day,
When throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away
Which blinds the nations now?
When earth no more beneath the fear
Of his rebuke shall lie;

When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wiped from every eye?

Then, Judah! thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain:

Thy days of splendour shall return,

And all be new again.

The fount of life shall then be quaffed,

In peace by all who come;

And every wind that blow shall waft

Some long-lost exile home.