Touch the cheek's contrasted bloom

With the poetry of gloom.

Offerings for a lover's eye,
Emblems of Love's witchery,
Round her heart that richly lies,-
Shadows, while it beautifies;
Keepsakes Love delights to give,
Did each friend one tress receive,
Every shining tress were lost,
For the maiden hath a host.
Ay! but trouble, stories say,
Locks as rich hath worn away.
What of this? But friends grew spare

As the scant and falling hair!

Wherefore send your pallid ray,
Streaks of cold, untimely gray,
Through the locks whose burnish'd hue
Hath but seen of years a few?
Autumn leaves on summer trees
Were less sorrowful than these.

Portions of life's travel-soil;
Footprints left by Grief and Toil;
Relics, too, of watchings late,

When one curl was too much weight

FROM GOLD TO GRAY.

On the hot brows, bending o'er
Some grave book of ancient lore.
'Tis the mourning Nature wears
For the hopes of younger years;
And the scorching breath of care
Thus can fade the brightest hair.

Hail to thee, thou glistening snow!
Full of placid beauty, flow
O'er the furrow'd brows that bear
Life's long story, written fair.
'Tis the white foam, cast aside
After Time's receding tide.

Yea, and pleasant types are ye
Of each moonlight memory ;
Shining from his far-off prime
To the old man's evening time.
More ye are reflections shed
From the heaven above his head;
Pale, but still assuring ray,
Of his nearly risen day.
Mortal! may thy hoary hair
E'en such glorious meaning bear,
That its silver threads may be
Messengers of light to thee!

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The Little Boy that Died.

I AM all alone in my chamber now,

And the midnight hour is near;

And the faggot's crack and the clock's dull tick Are the only sounds I hear.

And over my soul in its solitude

Sweet feelings of gladness glide,

For

my heart and eyes are full when I think Of the little boy that died!

I went one night to my father's home-
Went home to the dear ones all;
And I softly opened the garden gate,
And softly the door of the hall.

My mother came out to meet her son-
She kiss'd me and then she sigh'd;
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept
For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him when the flowers come
In the garden where he play'd;
I shall miss him more by the fireside,
When the flowers have all decay'd.

THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.

I shall see his toys, and his empty chair,

And the horse he used to ride;

And they all shall speak, with a silent speech, Of the little boy that died.

We shall go home to our Father's house,
To our Father's house in the skies,

85

Where the hope of our soul shall know no blight, Our love no broken ties,

We shall roam on the banks of the River of Life,
And drink of its crystal tide;

And one of the joys of our heaven shall be
The little boy that died!

The Divine Pilgrim.

BIRDS have their quiet nest, Foxes their holes, and man his peaceful bed; All creatures have their rest,—

But Jesus had not where to lay his head.

Winds have their hour of calm,

And waves, to slumber on the voiceless deep; Eve hath its breath of balm,

To hush all senses and all sounds to sleep.

The wild deer hath its lair,

The homeward flocks the shelter of their shed; All have their rest from care,

But Jesus had not where to lay his head.

And yet he came to give

The weary and the heavy-laden rest;

To bid the sinner live,

And soothe our griefs to slumber on his breast.

Why then am I, my God,

Permitted thus the paths of peace to tread?
Peace, purchased by the blood

Of Him who had not where to lay his head!