Our loving hearts. Rivers of pleasure flow At God's right hand for ever:

O, let me go!

For Thou art there,

Who unto me hast given

Eternal life, making me pure and fair;

And this to me is heaven,

For Thou art there.

INFANCY.

In the dusky alcove,
Near the altar laid,
Sleeps the child in shadow
Of his mother's bed;
Softly he reposes,
And his lids of roses,
Closed to earth, uncloses

On the heaven o'erhead.

Many a dream is with him,
Fresh from fairy land:
Spangled o'er with diamonds
Seems the ocean sand ;
Suns are gleaming there;
Troops of ladies fair
Souls of infants bear

In their charming band.

O, enchanting vision!
Lo! a rill upsprings,
And from out its bosom

Comes a voice that sings.

Lovelier there appear

Sire and sister dear,

While his mother near

Plumes her new-born wings.

But a brighter vision
Yet his eyes behold:
Roses all and lilies
Every path unfold;
Lakes in shadow sleeping,
Silver fishes leaping,
And the waters creeping
Through the reeds of gold.

Innocent! thou sleepest!
See! the heavenly band,
Who foreknow the trials
That for man are planned,
Seeing him unarmed,
Unfearing, unalarmed,

With their tears have warned
His unconscious hand.

Angels hovering o'er him,
Kiss him where he lies;
Hark! he sees their weeping:
"Gabriel!" he cries;
"Hush!" the angel says,
On his lip he lays

One finger and displays

His native skies.

VICTOR M. HUGO.

THE LOST BABY.

DEDICATED TO AN EMPTY CRADLE.

Oh, affliction's thronging shadows to our home unbidden

come,

And we grope with muffled footsteps, and our hearts with grief are dumb!

For we seek our sweet baby, the wee birdling of our nest, And our arms are outstretched vainly to entice him to his

rest,

Thro' each open door we call him, from the attic to the hall;

But our eyes are dim with weeping, for he answers not our call.

Here his well-worn shoes are lying on the closet's dusty floor;

There his little hat is hanging, where it always hung before; But they say, he is an angel, and will need them never more. On the pillow in his cradle is the impress of his head, Where last I saw him lying, when they told me he was dead.

But I know that he is living, and has only "gone before," And I'm sure that he will meet me just within the Crystal

Door;

And though thro' light and shadow I must go, as I have

gone,

I shall ever think him near me, with his shining garments on.

Oh, his little life was hallowed, like a holy Sabbath day,
And the fragrance of his memory can never pass away.
On a blessed Sabbath morning, God sent him down to

earth,

And a blessed Sabbath morning gave our darling second birth;

And now, an endless Sabbath day has shut our Cherub in, Where we know he cannot suffer from Earth's sorrow or

its sin.

Oh, we miss our precious baby, and the wealth of smiles he

brought,

While we daily con the lessons which his worldless prattle taught;

But he left his winsome cooing, and his creeping on the floor, For his cherub voice and pinions, sweet to sing and strong

to soar.

Still we mourn, with selfish longing, for the radiance of his

eye,

Though we know 't will beam the brighter when he greets us by-and-by;

And, tho' our hearts are yearning for our darling all the

day.

Yet we bless the One who took him from our fondness quite

away,

Pure and stainless as He gave him, fresh as when His skillful hand

Gave his infant limbs their fashion, and his baby mission planned.

And the earth seems all more lovely, and the skies new glories wear,

Since our little Georgia left us, to go up the shining stair; And our hearts are growing stronger, too, with every ad

ded cord,

That binds us to our Father's house, the mansion of the Lord.

S. P. D.

LINES.

To the Memory of “Annie,” who died at Milan, June 6, 1860.

"Jesus said unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou?' She, supposing him to be the gar

dener, said un'o him:

Sir, if thou have born him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."-JOHN XX. 15.

In the fair gardens of celestial peace

Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;
And when he walks, each floweret to his will
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,

In the mild summer radiance of his eye;-
No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,

Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love
Are nurseries to those gardens of the air;
And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,
Watcheth the growing of his treasures there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,
O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;
Forgetful of the high, mysterious right

He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields
Needs the fair presence of an added flower,
Down sweeps a starry angel in the night ;

At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!
Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above-
Like a new star outblossom'd in the skies-
The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friends, no more upon that lonely mound-
Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf-
Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye
Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rose-bud bore within its breast
Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,
That the bleak climate of this lower sphere
Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence-
Nor must thou ask to take her hence away;
Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour,
Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.