And in that great and glorious throng Who crowd the Saviour's feet,

May you and we, by grace redeemed, In endless pleasure meet.

INFANT BEAUTY.

I LOVE to gaze upon thy face,
With infant beauty beaming,
To watch the gay and artless grace,
O'er every feature streaming,
When bliss has lighted up the eye
Of childhood into ecstasy.

Ere yet the sparkling fount of life,
'Mong earthly streams has vanished,
Or the dark waves of sin and strife,
Its first fresh brightness banished,
While yet its calm and holy tide,
By innocence is sanctified.

Oh! who can chide a mother's love?-
Is not her heartfelt pleasure

Allied to purity above,

While she beholds the treasure
That hangs in beauty at her breast,
And deems it of all gifts- the best?

To see the ever-shifting shades
Of light and beauty dancing
Across the face, where as one fades
Another smile is glancing,

Unutterable joy imparts

Down to the depths of mothers' hearts.

But years are flown; and where is now
The look of infant gladness?

The beauty of the child's fair brow
Is dashed with lines of sadness;
And, worse than all, dark, dreadful sin
Lurks, like a pestilence, within.

There is one change, and only one-
Childhood! thy peace redeeming;
The second birth! when joy unknown
Through the free spirit streaming,
Tells of redemption, pardon, love,

Untold on earth-but sealed above.

THE Kirk of Auchindown stands, with its burial-ground, on a little green hill, surrounded by an irregular and straggling village, or rather about an hundred hamlets clustering round it, with their fields and gardens. A few of these gardens come close up to the church-yard wall, and in spring-time, many of the fruit-trees hang rich and beautiful, over the adjacent graves. The voices and the laughter of the children at play on the green before the parish-school, or their composed murmur when at their various lessons together in their room, may be distinctly heard all over the burial-ground,-so may the song of

the maidens going to the well;-while all around, the singing of the birds is thick and hurried; and a small rivulet, as if brought there to be an emblem of passing time, glides away beneath the mossy wall, murmuring continually a dream-like tune around the dwellings of the dead.

In the quiet of the evening, after the Elder's Funeral, my venerable friend and father took me with him into the church-yard. We walked to the eastern corner, where, as we approached, I saw a Monument standing almost by itself, and even at that distance, appearing to be of somewhat different character from any other over all the burial-ground. And now we stood close to, and before it.

ument.

It was a low Monument, of the purest white marble, simple, but perfectly elegant and graceful withal, and upon its unadorned slab lay the sculptured images of two children asleep in each other's arms. All around it was a small piece of greenest ground, without the protection of any rail, but obviously belonging to the MonIt shone, without offending them, among the simpler or ruder burial beds round about it, and although the costliness of the materials, the affecting beauty of the design, and the delicacy of its execution, all showed that there slept the offspring neither of the poor nor low in life, yet so meekly and sadly did it lift up its unstained little walls, and so well did its un

usual elegance meet and blend with the character of the common tombs, that no heart could see it without sympathy, and without owning that it was a pathetic ornament of a place filled with the ruder memorials of the very humblest dead.

"There lie two of the sweetest children," said the old man, "that ever delighted a mother's soul-two English boys-scions of a noble stem. They were of a decayed family of high lineage; and had they died in their own coun. try a hundred years ago, they would have been let down into a vault with all the pomp of religion. Methinks, fair flowers, they are sleeping as meetly here.

now

"Six years ago I was an old man, and wished to have silence and stillness in my house, that my communion with Him before whom I expected every day to be called might be undisturbed. Accordingly my Manse, that used to ring with boyish glee, was now quiet; when a lady, elegant, graceful, beautiful, young, and a widow, came to my dwelling, and her soft, sweet, silver voice told me that she was from England. She was the relict of an officer slain in war, and having heard a dear friend of her husband's, who had lived in my house, speak of his happy and innocent time here, she earnestly requested me to receive beneath my roof her two sons. She herself lived with the bed-ridden mother of her dead husband; and