IN MEMORIAM.

They are not dead-my darlings-
They meet me at the door,
The patter of their little feet
Is sounding from the floor.

The rustle of their garments soft, The tones that murmuring fell, In cadence sweet, upon my ear, Forbid a last farewell.

Oh! many are the fancies
That still my heart beguile,
While reason sleeps, they enter,

And cheat my love the while.

Sometimes I am returning

From a little absence-long

To the dear ones who are watching For their mother's safe return.

I see them far off, coming,
And half I bend to meet;
The Welcome, soft and tender,
That was ever mine to greet.

First of all, my darling Mary,

With her bright and happy brow;

The sunlight of her beauty

Is beaming on me now.

And by her side another,

With his wealth of golden hair;

I can see his sunny ringlets

Tossing wildly in the air.

Alas! it is but dreaming,

My darlings are at rest;

But the mother-heart is yearning

To fold them to her breast.

Oh! my heart is full of memories,
Mine eyes are full of tears;
God only knows the anguish,

'Mid the calmness which appears.

THE ANGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR.

TO SARAH MARIE.

An angel strayed from Eden's bowers,
Nor found again its home so dear;
For wandering near this world of ours,
With trembling wing and heart of fear-

It chanced upon our parent cot,

At the sweet hour of eventide;

Our little ones-a circle sweet

Were gathered to the mother side.

With raised eyes and clasped hands,

Their hearts went in one choral strain,

Oh! God protect our father dear,

And bring him safely back again.

Then as that prayer of love went up,
Like incense on the floating air,
The angel downward bent his wing,
And found a home amid them there.

Now closely folded to my breast,

From morn till evening's dewy hour, I clasp this solace, warm and close,

The angel of my weary hour.