But her more common mood of mind was one
Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she

In ten brief years her little course had run;
Many more brief have known, but brighter surely none.

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad,
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell

How calmly happy and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell:
Like to the waters in some crystal well,

In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen,
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell

Glimpses of light more glorious and serene

Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.

But though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile
Had sweetness in it passing that of mirth;
Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while
Betrayed of childish sympathies no dearth:
She loved the wild flowers scattered over earth,
Bright insects sporting in the light of day,
Blithe songsters giving joyous music birth

In groves impervious to the noontide ray;

All these she loved as much as those who seemed more gay.

Yet more she loved the word, the smile, the look,
Of those who reared her with religious care;
With fearful joy she conned that Holy Book,
At whose unfolded page full many a prayer,
In which her weal immortal had its share,

Recurred to memory; for she had been trained,
Young as she was, her early cross to bear;

And taught to love, with fervency unfeigned, The record of His life whose death salvation gained.

I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,

On every charm and grace of this fair maid; For, in his narrative, the story's end

Was long with fond prolixity delayed;

Though fancy had too well its close portrayed

Before I heard it. Who but might have guessed That one so ripe for Heaven would early fade

In this brief state of trouble and unrest;
Yet only wither here to bloom in life more blest?

My theme is one of joy, and not of grief;
I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay,
Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf,

Fading and sinking to its parent clay :
She sank as sinks the glorious orb of day,

His radiance brightening at his journey's close, Yet with that chastened, soft, and gentle ray

In which no dazzling splendor fiercely glows, But on whose mellow light our eyes with joy repose.

Her strength was failing, but it seemed to sink So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear; 'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink, Which breaks in dying music on the ear, And placid beauty on the eye: no tear Except of quiet joy in hers was known, Though some there were around her justly dear, Her love for whom in every look was shown, Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.

One summer morn they missed her: she had been, As usual, to the garden arbor brought,

After their matin meal; her placid mien

Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought, Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness were fraught,

And she was left amid that peaceful scene

A little space; but when she there was sought,

In her secluded oratory green,

Their arbor's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen!

They found her in her chamber, by the bed

Whence she had risen, and on the bedside chair, Before her, was an open Bible spread;

Herself upon her knees.

With tender care

They stole on her devotions, when the air

Of her meek countenance the truth made known: The child had died! died in the act of prayer!

And her pure spirit, without sigh or groan,

To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown.

LESSON VII.

The Dead Son. JOHN PIERPONT.

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 parlor floor,
And, through the open door,

I hear a footfall on his chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then begin to think - 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 whispers that - he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly

Before the thought comes that

he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my 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 welfare, though-he is not there!

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 locked

he is not there!

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 joy to find that he is there!

LESSON VIII.

Playthings, Amusements, and Employments for Children. MRS. CHILD.

IN infancy, the principal object is to find such toys as are at once attractive and safe. During the painful process of teething, a roll of India rubber is good, on account of the ease it gives the gums. It should be fastened to a string, but not a

green one, or any other from which a child can suck the color. Painted toys are not safe at this age, when children are so prone to convey every thing to the mouth. An ivory ring and a bunch of keys are favorite playthings with babies. Indeed, any thing they can move about and make a noise with, is pleasant to them. I have seen infants amuse themselves, for hours, with a string of very large wooden beads, or shining buttons. Perhaps it is needless to say that no buttons but those made of steel, wood, or ivory, are safe; if they have any portion of brass about them, they are injurious. When