Seek thy Saviour's flock,
To his blest fold going,
Seek that smitten rock

Whence our peace is flowing;
Still should love rejoice,
Whatsoe'er betide thee,
If that shepherd's voice
Evermore would guide thee.

THE DYING BOY.

Found in an old magazine, but well worthy of preservation here.
It must be sweet, in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Hath grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown-to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round and call'd him out
To revel in its light, he turn'd away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.
'Twas night-he summon'd his accustom'd friends,
And, in this wise, bestow'd his last bequest.

"Mother-I'm dying now!

There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom press'd;
And on my brow

I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me is this death?
Mother, your hand-

Here-lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead
Shall I be miss'd ?

Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay
You taught to me.

Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there."

"Father, I'm going home!

To the good home you spoke of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

I must be happy then,

From pain and death you say I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again ! "

"Brother--the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stay'd to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

Plant there some box or pine;
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"

"Sister-my young rose tree

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.

And when its roses bloom

I shall be gone away, my short life done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb ? ”

"Now, mother, sing the tune

You sang last night; I'm weary and must sleep.
Who was it call'd my name? Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air

Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury labours of the early spring-
He breathed it not; the laugh of passers by
Jarr'd, like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers. He was dead!

THE SHUNAMITE.

By N. P. WILLIS, the American poet.

Ir was a sultry day of summer time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse

Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat.

66

"Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said,
Thy father is athirst "-and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, and his little naked feet

Lifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills,
And through the light green hollows, where the lambs
Go for the tender grass, he kept his way,
Whiling its distance with his simple thoughts,
Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows
Throbbing with heat, he set his burthen down.

Childhood is restless ever, and the boy
Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree,
But with a joyous industry went forth
Into the reapers' places, and bound
His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly
The pliant withs out of the shining straw,

up

Cheering their labour on, till they forgot
The very weariness of their stooping toil
In the beguiling of his earnest mirth.
Presently he was silent, and his eye

Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand
Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast
Heaving with the suppression of a cry,
He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back
Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.

They bore him to his mother, and he lay
Upon her knees till noon-and then he died!
She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand
Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon
The dreamy languor of his listless eye,
And she had laid back all his sunny curls,
And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him
Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong-
His beauty was so unlike death! She lean'd
Over him now, that she might catch the low
Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd
To love when he was slumbering at her side
In his unconscious infancy-

"So still!

'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies,
With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins
Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek!

How could they say that he would die! Oh God!
I could not lose him! I have treasured all
His childhood in my heart, and even now,
As he has slept, my memory has been there,
Counting like treasure all his winning ways—
His unforgotten sweetness :-

"Yet so still!—

How like this breathless slumber is to death!
I could believe that in that bosom now

There were no pulse-it beats so languidly!

I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!—

Death would not be so very beautiful!

And that half smile-would death have left that there? -And should I not have felt that he would die ?

And have I not wept over him?-and pray'd
Morning and night for him?—and could he die?
-No-God will keep him! He will be my pride
Many long years to come, and this fair hair
Will darken like his father's, and his eye
Be of a deeper blue when he is grown;
And he will be so tall, and I shall look
With such a pride upon him!-He to die!"
And the fond mother lifted his soft curls,
And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think
That such fair things could perish-

-Suddenly

Her hand shrunk from him, and the colour fled
From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees

Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd
His forehead, as she dallied with his hair-
And it was cold-like clay! Slow, very slow,
Came the misgiving that her child was dead.
She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed
In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took
His little hand and press'd it earnestly-
And put her lip to his-and look'd again
Fearfully on him—and then, bending low,
She whisper'd in his ear, My son -My son !"
And as the echo died, and not a sound
Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still
Motionless on her knee-the truth would come!
And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart
Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close
Into her bosom-with a mother's thought-
As if death had no power to touch him there!

The man of God came forth, and led the child
Unto his mother, and went on his way.
And he was there-her beautiful-her own-
Living and smiling on her with his arms
Folded about her neck, and his warm breath
Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear
The music of his gentle voice once more!