MY CHILD.

I'm stepping towards the hall,

To give the boy a call,

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satcheled lad I meet

With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair;
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that-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 whispered 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, gay break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

When at 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!

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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 spirit-though he is not there!

Not there! where then is he?

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! in all the past

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!

ANONYMOUS.

AST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?

Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?-
Then mayst thou mete a mother's love.

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?