I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features

be,

How silver sweet those tones of his when he

prattles on my knee:

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's,

keen,

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath

ever been;

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport

alone.

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our

mirth.

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his

heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love:

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot

tell,

For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth

now,

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,

Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal.

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is

now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of

flesh,

But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from

every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can

never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from

bliss may sever,

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours

for ever,

When we think of what our darling is, and what we

still must be;