Potent is sorrow's breath

To quench wrath's fever; and the hungry will
That clutches fame, looks in the face of death,
And the wild mind is still.

No paths of sense may wile
The yearning heart. It asks not if the road
Have bays to crown, or odours to beguile;
But does it lead to GOD?

Love, purity, repose,

Faith cherished, duty done, and wrong forgivenBe these the garland and the staff of those

Who have a child in heaven!"

Mrs. HENRY F. BROCK.

THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.

Gentle Shepherd, Thou hast stilled
Now Thy little lamb's long weeping;
Ah, how peaceful, pale, and mild,
In its narrow bed 'tis sleeping;

And no sigh of anguish sore,
Heaves that little bosom more.

In this world of care and pain,

Lord, Thou wouldst no longer leave it, To the sunny heavenly plain

Dost Thou now with joy receive it; Clothed in robes of spotless white, Now it dwells with Thee in light.

Ah, Lord Jesus, grant that we
Where it lives may soon be living,
And the lovely pastures see

That its heavenly food are giving;
Then the gain of death we prove,
Though Thou take what most we love.

"Lyra Germanica."-MEINHOLD.

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

O! who shall tell what fearful pangs
That mother's heart are rending,
As o'er her infant's little grave
Her wasted form is bending.
From many an eye that weeps to-day,
Delight may beam to-morrow;
But she her precious babe is not;
And what remains but sorrow?

Bereaved one! I may not chide

Thy tears and bitter sobbing,—
Weep on! 'twill cool that burning brow,
And still that bosom's throbbing;
But be not thine such grief as theirs,
To whom no hope is given,-

Snatched from the world, its sin and snares,
Thy infant rests in heaven.

BISHOP DOANE.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl;

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"

"How many?-Seven in all," she said, And wondering, looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you, tell."

She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,

The little maid replied;

Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.