JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished,
But gradual faded from our love away:
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished,
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day.

My blessed Master saved me from repining,
So tenderly He sued me for His own;
So beautiful He made my babe's declining,
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done.

And daily to my board at noon and even

Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, Gazing the while on death, without its sting.

And of the ransom for that baby paid

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, That the sure truth of grief a gladness made:

Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed!

There were two milk-white doves, my wife had nourished;
And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand
Marking how each the other fondly cherished,
And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand!

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying,
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest;
And to the murmurs of his sleep replying,
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast.

"Twas a fair sight: the snow-pale infant sieeping,

So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping: Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child!

Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining,
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play:
And on the day he died, with sad note pining,
One gentle bird would not be frayed away.

His mother found it, when she rose, sad-hearted,
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill;
And when, at last, the little spirit parted,

The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding,
As with a human sorrow in its coo;

To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding,
Most pitifully plained — and parted too.

'Twas my first hansel and propine to Heaven;
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod,
Precious His comforts once an infant given,
And offered with two turtle-doves to God!

MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear, departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love?

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace:

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wildwoods, thickening, green,
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but th' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary dear, departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ROBERT BURNS.

AH, CHLORIS !

AH, Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcerned as when

Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure nor no pain!

When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,

I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine :

Age from no face took more away Than youth concealed in thine.

But as your charins, insensibly,
To their perfection prest,

Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew;
And Cupid, at my heart,

Still, as his mother favored you,

Threw a new flaming dart.