Here would we end our quest;
Alone are found in thee,
The life of perfect love-the rest
Of immortality.

MY CHILD.

Anon.

I CANNOT make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head.
Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,
And through the open door

I heard a foot-fall on the chamber stair :
I'm stepping towards the hall,

To give the boy a call,

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street,

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair; And, as he's running by

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin lid,

Closed are his eyes-cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt,

O'er it in prayer I knelt,

Yet my heart whisper'd that—he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed

So long watch'd over by parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When at the cool, gay break

Of day from sleep I wake,

When at first breathing of the morning air,

My soul goes up with joy

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ;
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying,

For our boy's spirit-though he is not there!

Not there!-where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear;

The grave that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress

Is but his wardrobe lock'd-he is not there!

He lives!-in all the past

He lives!-nor to the last
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now,

And on his angel brow

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there.

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.

Keeble.

SUN of my soul, thou Saviour dear,

It is not night if thou be near:

O may no earth-born cloud arise,

To hide thee from thy servant's eyes.

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,

And all the flowers of life unfold,

Let not my heart within me burn,

Except in all I thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought-how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour's breast!

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark,
Steer through the tempest thine own ark:
Amid the howling wintry sea,

We are in port if we have thee.

If some poor wandering child of thine Have spurned, to-day, the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin.

Watch by the sick; enrich the poor
With blessings from thy boundless store :
Be every mourner's sleep to-night,
Like infants' slumbers, pure and light.

Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take :
Till in the ocean of thy love

We lose ourselves in heaven above.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

Mary Bowitt.

GOD might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small—

The oak tree, and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.

He might have made enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have made no flowers.

The ore within the mountain-mine
Requireth none to grow,
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower

To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,

The nightly dew might fall,

And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashion'd with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night:

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountain high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by?