All the songs the wild birds pour,

All the sweets that come

From each odor-laden flower,

Tell us of the home

Where our darling, gone before,
Waits for us, life's journey o'er.

White-winged child, with golden hair,
We will strive to meet thee there!

THE CHILD ON EARTH, AND THE CHILD IN HEAVEN. 63

The Child on Earth, and the Child in Heaven.

ANONYMOUS.

MOTHER and I one afternoon,
As evening shades drew on,
Sat talking in our little room
Of joys for ever gone;
Of one we very dearly loved,
Who had but lately died-
The youngest of our happy band-
My mother's joy and pride.

And while we sat and talked of him,
My brother, standing near,
Asked "why God took him from us,

If he was to us so dear?"

We said, that "God, who loved him most,
In wisdom and in love

Had taken him away from us,

To dwell in heaven above!"

We asked him if he wished to go
To heaven, when he died,
And meet his angel-brother there:
"Oh, yes!" the boy replied;

And then, with smiles upon his face—
An earnest look above-

He spoke in tones of innocence,
These words of truth and love:

"I want to go when mother goes,"
(What love is here expressed!)
"I would not leave her here alone."

Dear child may you be blessed,
And may we, when this life is o'er,
Our errors all forgiven,

All meet upon that blissful shore

That "better land," in heaven!

THE LITTLE BOY'S BURIAL.

The Little Boy's Burial.

W. C. BRYANT.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
Sat where a river rolled away,

With calm, sad brows, and raven hair;

And one was pale, and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown,
Bring forest blooms of name unknown;

Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,

To strew the bier of Love, the child!

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His

eyes, that death may seem like sleep; And fold his hands in sign of rest,

His waxen hands across his breast.

65

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And blue-birds, in the misty spring
Of cloudless skies and summer, sing.

Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around

His waggish eyes in sport he bound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss

His ready smile, his ready kiss,

The prattle of his little feet,

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high,
A light of heaven in that young eye;
All these shall haunt us till the heart
Shall ache, and ache, and tears will start.

The bow, the band shall fall to dust,
The shining arrows waste with rust;
And all of love that earth can claim,
Be but a memory and a name.