I shall not again see the sweet infant bell of the heath rise up, without a tear for the gentle babe, through whose blue veins flowed blood not alien to me and mine, and whose lovely aspect frequently comes before me, in the silent hour, to melt my heart into sympathy with those who owned a much nearer tie: but I will look up, and rejoice ; for precious is her lot, and her rest is very glorious.

" Beautiful baby ! art thou sleeping

Ne'er to unclose that beaming eye ? Deaf to the voice of a mother's weeping,

All unmoved by a father's sigh I

Wilt thou forsake the breast that bore the

Seeking a lone, a distant spot, To bid the cold, damp sod close o'er thee,

Amid the slumb'rers who waken not I"

Mother, loved mother, I am not sleeping;

Father, look up to the soft blue sky; Where the glittering stars bright watch are keeping,

Singing and shining, there am I.

Warm was the tender breast that bore me;

'Twas sweet, my mother, to rest with thee: But I was chosen—thou must restore me.

To the fonder bosom that bled for me.

I lingered below, till just discerning

My father's voice, and my mother's smile;

Love's infant lesson my heart was learning, But oft my spirit was sad the while.

Hast thou ne'er marked thy baby dreaming ?

Sawest thou no radiance o'er her spread ? Oh, rich and pure were the bright rays streaming,

The songs of heaven were round my bed.

And when I waked, though thou wast bending With looks almost like my sunny dreams,

My soul to that softer world was tending,

My home was still with the songs and beams.

My brothers—my heart grew daily fonder, When gazing on each young smiling face,

But I yearned for the brothers, who, sparkling yonder, Had sung to me oft, from their beauteous place.

Oh I many a lonely hour of weeping

Thou hast past by their forsaken bed; But sorrow no more, they are not sleeping,

They linger not with the silent dead.

Could I show thee mine, and my brothers' dwelling, Could I sing thee the songs we are singing here,

Could I tell thee the tales that we are telling, Oh where, my mother, would be thy tear I

For we on milk-white wings are sailing, Where rainbow tints surrounded the throne,

And while bright seraphs their eyes are veiling, We see the face of the Holy One.

And we, when heaven's high arch rejoices With thundering notes of raptured praise,

We, thine own babes, with loud sweet voices, The frequent hallelujah raise.

And we, oh, we are closely pressing Where stands the Lamb for sinners slain;—

Hark! " Glory, honour, power and blessing," Away ! we are called to swell the strain.

Mother, loved Mother, we are not sleeping;

Father, look up where the bright stars be; Where all the planets their watch are keeping,

Singing and shining there are we !