Flee little tender nursling; Flee to thy place of rest! There the first flower shall blow, Peace! peace! the little bosom, I've seen thee in thy beauty, Baby! thou seem'st to me. Mount up, immortal essence! How beautiful thou art. Thine upturned eyes glaz❜d over, By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open, Thy soul were fluttering. Oh! I could gaze for ever An angel's dwelling-place Thou weepest, childless mother! Thy first, thine only one, "Tis hard from him to part! "Tis hard to lay thy darling Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again in slumber To feel, half conscious why, A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole, That thou art desolate. And then to lie and weep, And think the live-long night, Of all his winning ways, His pretty, playful smiles, And all his little wiles! Oh! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that clingThat mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, But thou wilt then, fond mother! In after years look back (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing, E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say,' My first-born blessing! It almost broke my heart 'I look around, and see The evil ways of men; And, oh beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. The little arms that clasp'd me, I lull'd thee on my breast? Now, when the hour arrives The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me.' THE BARREL ORGAN. [MISS ROSCOE.] THE father sat and watch'd his boy, With all a father's woe; Fled was the rosy light of joy, And faded his young brow; Dark shades were gathering o'er its grace, And yet he linger'd still-at fits, Across his cheek;-that gleam And his small feeble hand with care It play'd-that simple careless tune, His pale cheek flushed with joy; The organ past—and all forgot The music fled away; But the young sufferer knew the spot, And the accustomed day; And ever, as it took its round, His heart was sooth'd with that sweet sound. But ah! glad strains, and tender cares, From death may never save; Soon torn from all sweet sounds he shares He takes him to his tomb-and then, What stirs him from his deep despair? In every note-in every tone, And thoughts of tenderness and love And draw his spirit far above A world so sad and brief: The airs of heaven are in his ear- |