THE LITTLE GOLDEN CURL.

You wonder why that tiny curl should be so dear to me,

For a little golden ringlet is all that you can see.

But oh! to me more precious, than pearl or ruby fair, Is the faint, flick'ring sunlight of that wee, soft lock of hair.

You cannot tell what memories are twined amidst its gold,

What thoughts of bright and happy hours in far-off days of old;

You know not how that tiny curl brings back my child

to me,

Whose little, loving, wistful face, I ne'er again shall see.

Whene'er I gaze upon it, I seem to hear again

The sounds of pattering baby-feet, like falling drops of

rain.

Once more that curly golden head is pillowed on my breast,

Once more those warm and clinging arms around my neck are pressed.

And those plump, dimpled fingers, that in old time used to stray

Around my neck so lovingly, in merry childish play,
I see them now before me; I can fancy that I hear
That silvery ringing laughter, like to music in my ear.

Ah, no! you never felt the power that lies in thoughts like these,

You hold not in your heart of hearts such sad, sweet memories:

Then chide me not if still I keep, with loving, reveren

care,

Amongst my dearest treasures still, that tiny lock of

hair.

A. MARRYAT.

E

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

HOOD.

THY GRAVE.

SLEEP well, sleep well in thy cool bed!
Thy tired limbs, they cannot feel

The sand and flints that are so hard.

Sleep soft and well!

Heavy thy coverlid and thick !

The earth is heaped upon thy heart;

Yet sleep in peace, it hurts thee not.

Sleep soft and well!

'God keep thee !'-Ah! thou hearest not, Nor wakest for my yearning cries ;

Would it be better couldst thou hear?

Nay! surely nay!

Dear heart! with thee 'tis well, 'tis well!
And if I could but be with thee,

Ah! then it would be well with me

I could endure.

Thou sleepest, and thou canst not hear
The murm'ring in the old church tower;
Nor when the watchman calleth twelve,
In the still night.

And when it lightens in the sky,
And crash on crash the thunder rolls-
The storm drives wildly o'er thy grave
And wakes thee not.

And all the things that troubled thee,
From early dawn to midnight deep,
Thank God! they trouble thee no more,
In thy still grave.

'Tis well with thee! Oh, it is well! And all that wounded thee so sore, Thank God! it hurts thee now no more, In thy cool bed.

If I could only be with thee,

Ah! then with me it would be well;
But now I wait, and find no balm

For my deep pain.

But when God wills, the day shall come,
The day of rest shall come for me,
And they will make my bed at last,

By thy dear side.

And I shall lie as still as thou,

And they will sing my lullaby,

And heap the earth upon my heart,

And say 'Farewell!'

And I shall sleep as soft as thou,
Nor hear the murm'ring in the tower;
I shall not wake till Sunday's dawn

Shall bring the dew.

And when that Sunday's dawn shall come, And angels sing their matin song,

Then we shall both together rise,

Refreshed and whole.

And a new church will glisten there,
Bathed in the rosy morning light,
And we shall enter in and sing

The praise of God.

Transl. from the German of Hebel by M. E. Townsend.

GOD'S ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow :
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

Songs for the Children.