I HAVE a little kinsman

Whose earthly summers are but three,
And yet a voyager is he

Greater than Drake or Frobisher,

Than all their peers together!

He is a brave discoverer,

And, far beyond the tether

Of them who seek the frozen pole,

Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.
Ay, he has travelled whither
A winged pilot steered his bark
Through the portals of the dark,
Past hoary Mimir's well and tree,
Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour,
Came one who bore a flower.
And laid it in his dimpled hand
With this command:
"Henceforth thou art a rover!'
Thou must make a voyage far,
Sail beneath the evening star,
And a wondrous land discover."
With his sweet smile innocent
Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word

From the absent has been heard.

Who can tell

How he fares, or answer well
What the little one has found

Since he left us, outward bound?

Would that he rght return!
Then should we learn

From the pricking of his chart
How the skyey roadways part.
Hush! does not the baby this way bring,
To lay beside this severed curl,

Some starry offering
Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!

We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver

He is a brave discoverer

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Of climes his elders do not know.
He has more learning than appears
On the scroll of twice three thousand years,
More than in the groves is taught,

Or from furthest Indies brought;

He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,
What shapes the angels wear,
What is their guise and speech

In those lands beyond our reach,
And his eyes behold

Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

"They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now:

That God will bless him in the skies, -
O mother, tell me how!"
"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought
And laid upon the casement here, —
A withered worm, you thought?

"I told you that Almighty power

Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.
"Look at the chrysalis, my love, -
An empty shell it lies;
Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies!"

"O yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry gold!
And see! it lightly flies away

Beyond my gentle hold.

--

-

"O mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range,
"How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,
And live with heavenly things!

CAROLINE HOWARD GILMAN.

LITTLE BESSIE,

AND THE WAY IN WHICH SHE FELL ASLEEP. ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, one of the most prominent among the publishers of New York City, was born in Woodbridge. N. J., in 1820, and has lived in New York since 1824. His poems were first collected and published in 1867 by his brother publisher, the late Charles Scribner.

HUG me closer, closer, mother,
Put your arms around me tight;
I am cold and tired, mother,

And I feel so strange to-night!
Something hurts me here, dear mother,
Like a stone upon my breast:
Oh, I wonder, wonder, mother,
Why it is I cannot rest.

All the day while you were working,
As I lay upon my bed,

I was trying to be patient,
And to think of what you said,

How the kind and blessed Jesus

Loves his lambs to watch and keep, And I wished he 'd come and take me In his arms, that I might sleep. Just before the lamp was lighted, Just before the children came, While the room was very quiet,

I heard some one call my name. All at once the window opened:

In a field were lambs and sheep; Some from out a brook were drinking, Some were lying fast asleep.

But I could not see the Saviour,

Though I strained my eyes to see ;
And I wondered if he saw me,
Would he speak to such as me ;
In a moment I was looking

On a world so bright and fair,
Which was full of little children,

And they seemed so happy there. They were singing, oh, how sweetly! Sweeter songs I never heard! They were singing sweeter, mother, Than our little yellow bird; And while I my breath was holding, One so bright upon me smiled, And I knew it must be Jesus, When he said, "Come here, my child.

"Come up here, my little Bessie,

Come up here and live with me, Where the children never suffer,

But are happier than you see"; Then I thought of all you told me

Of that bright and happy land; I was going when you called me, When you came and kissed my hand.

And at first I felt so sorry

You had called me; I would go Oh, to sleep, and never suffer;

Mother, don't be crying so! Hug me closer, closer, mother,

Put your arms around me tight;
Oh, how much I love you, mother;
And I feel so strange to-night!

And the mother pressed her closer
To her overburdened breast;
On the heart so near to breaking
Lay the heart so near its rest;
At the solemn hour of midnight,

In the darkness calm and deep,
Lying on her mother's bosom,
Little Bessie fell asleep!

1866

ANSON D. F RANDOLPH.

TO ONE AT REST.

AND needest thou our prayers no more, safe folded mid the blest?

How changed art thou since last we met to keep the day of rest!

Young with the youth of angels, wise with the growth of years,

For we have passed since thou hast gone a week of many tears;

And thou hast passed a week in heaven, a week without a sin,

Thy robes made white in Jesus' blood, ali glorious within.

We shall miss thee at a thousand turns along life's weary track,

Not a sorrow or a joy, but we shall long to call thee back,

Yearn for thy true and gentle heart, long thy

My bride and my redeemed, winter and night are past,

And the time of singing and of light has come to thee at last";

When the family is gathered, and the Father's house complete,

And we and thou, beloved, in our Father's smile shall meet.

ELIZABETH RUNDLE CHARLES.

No room for little Willie ;

In the world he had no part; On him stared the Gorgon-eye

Through which looks no heart. "Come to me," said Heaven; And if Heaven will save, Little matters though the door Be a workhouse grave!

GERALD MASSEY.

LITTLE WILLIE.

POOR little Willie,

With his many pretty wiles: Worlds of wisdom in his look, And quaint, quiet smiles; Hair of amber, touched with Gold of heaven so brave; All lying darkly hid

In a workhouse grave.

You remember little Willie, Fair and funny fellow! he Sprang like a lily

From the dirt of poverty. Poor little Willie !

Not a friend was nigh, When from the cold world

He crouched down to die.

In the day we wandered foodless,

Little Willie cried for "bread";

In the night we wandered homeless, Little Willie cried for "bed." Parted at the workhouse door,

Not a word we said;

Ah! so tired was poor Willie! And so sweetly sleeps the dead!

'T was in the dead of winter

We laid him in the earth; The world brought in the new year On a tide of mirth.

But, for lost little Willie

Not a tear we crave;

Cold and hunger cannot wake him
In his workhouse grave.

We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;

We loved him dutiful:

Down, down, poor heart! The storms they may beat,

The winter winds may rave; Little Willie feels not

In his workhouse grave.

THE REQUIEM FOR A YOUNG MOTHER.

MRS. ADA (CAMbridge) Cross was born in Norfolk, Eugland, in 1844, and under her maiden name has published several volumes of prose and verse. Her Hymns or the Holy Communion" were reprinted in New York by Rau dolph in 1866. Besides these, she has written "Hymns on the Litany." She was married in 1869 to the Rev. G. T. Cross, of Australia.

HARK! how that eloquent note

Throbs on the soft, sweet air,
Solemn and stern and low,
Breathing of mortal woe.

Its lingering echoes in our wild hearts float, Hushing them suddenly with the hush of prayer.

Stand 'neath the old gray tower,

Mellowed in crimson light;
Look at the blue hills now,
Blushing from base to brow

With the glad beauty of the sunset hour:
Can there be mourning in a world so bright?

"In thee no hearts may mourn,

Nor eloquent tears o'erflow; Thine is the perfect peace,

Thine is the sweet release

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From every sorrow that the soul has borne Through this strange life of trial here below.

"Ah! there will dear ones mcet,

Parting no more for aye;
There will the old love shine,

Perfected, pure, divine;

There shall they rest in rapture calm and sweet,

Those who are severed in this world to-day."

ADA CAMPRIege Cross.

THE BURIAL ANTHEM. BROTHER, thou art gone before us, And thy saintly soul is flown Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown.

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o`er,
And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
Upon his Father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail;

And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best.
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said;
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us
Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find;