I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air, I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, And loveth, too, his mother dear with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought that fills his mind, The food for grave, inquiring speech he every where doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk, He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; Nor cares he much for childish play, doats not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little head is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of care, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn are the words which he will say. Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be, And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three, 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 eyes are 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 mind and tender feeling, And his very looks a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folks who pass him in the street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow he is to all, and yet with cheerful tone, Will sing his song of love when left to play alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all o'er mirth; Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As meet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. And if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes may dim, God comfort us for all the love that we may lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by months and years where he is gone to dwell; To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smile was given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, 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 numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know, for God doth tell me this, that now he is at rest Where other blessed infants be Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more the on their weary load of flesh, But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know that we shall meet our babe, his mother dear and I, When God himself 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 care, 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 may be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery, When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh! we'd rather lose our other two than have him here again. A HEBREW MELODY. Bogg. On Carmel's brow the wreathy vine Into that shadowy region sped, He saw the valleys far and wide, He looked o'er many a mountain's side, Save that a boding voice sung on, By wave and waterfall, As still in harsh and heavy tone, On Kison's strand and Ephratah, |