LINES ADDRESSED TO A MOTHER, ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANTS.

J. Q. ADAMS.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise

Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
There, at the Almighty Father's hand,
Nearest the throne of living light,
The choirs of infant seraphs stand,

And dazzling shine, where all are bright.
Chained for a dreary length of years
Down to these elements below,
Some stain the sky-born spirit bears
Contracted from this world of woe.

That unextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,

Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam,
The more it lingers upon earth.
Closed in this dark abode of clay,
The stream of glory faintly burns;

Not unobscured, the lucid ray

To its own native fount returns.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A MOTHER.

But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame;
Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came.
O Anna! be that solace thine;
Let Hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,
The anguish of a mother's heart.
O, think the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumbered saints above,

Bask in the bosom of their God!
Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain;

Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still, filial gratitude retain.

The days of pain, the nights of care,

The bosom's agonizing strife,

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The pangs which thou for them didst bear,No! they forget them not with life.

Scarce could their germing thought conceive, While in this vale of tears they dwelt,

Scarce their fond sympathy relieve

The sufferance thou for them hast felt. But there the soul's perennial flower Expands in never-fading bloom,

Spurns at the grave's poor transient hour, And shoots immortal from the tomb. No weak, unformed idea there

Toils, the mere promise of a mind; The tide of intellect flows clear,

Strong, full, unchanging, and refined.
Each anxious care, each rending sigh,
That wrung for them the parent's breast,
Dwells on remembrance in the sky,
Amid the raptures of the blest.

O'er thee with looks of love they bend,
For thee the Lord of life implore,
And oft from sainted bliss descend,

Thy wounded quiet to restore.
Oft in the stillness of the night

They smooth the pillow for thy bed;
Oft, till the morn's returning light,
Still watchful hover o'er thy head.
Hark! in such strains as saints employ,
They whisper to thy bosom, Peace;
Calm the perturbed heart to joy,

And bid the streaming sorrow cease.
Then dry henceforth the bitter tear,
Their path and thine inverted see;
Thou wert their guardian angel here,

They guardian angels now to thee.

TO A DYING INFANT.

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TO A DYING INFANT.

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Go to thy rest, my child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefiled,

With blessings on thy head;
Fresh roses in thy hand,

Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this fearful land,

Where flowers so quickly fade.

Before thy heart might learn

In waywardness to stray,

Before thy foot could turn

The dark and downward way,
Ere sin might wound the breast,
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,
In yon celestial sphere.

Because thy smile was fair,
Thy lip and eye so bright,

Because thy cradle care

Was such a fond delight,
Shall Love, with weak embrace,
Thy heavenward flight detain?

No! Angel, seek thy place
Amid yon cherub train.

LITTLE CHARLIE.

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

A VIOLET grew by the river-side,

And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
It breathed a rich perfume.

But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
And its portals were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
That grew by the river-side.

Not far away, in a pleasant home,

There lived a little boy,

Whose cheerful face and childish grace

Filled every heart with joy.

He wandered one day to the river's verge,

With no one near to save;

And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave.

The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,

And we bade farewell to joy;

For Our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie

To the grave of the little boy.

The birds still sing in the leafy tree

That shadows the open door;

We heed them not, for we think of the voice
That we shall hear no more.