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And hold in mother-passion,

Thy Blessed, in thy sight.
See how he went out straightway

From the dark world he knew;
No twilight in the gateway

To mediate 'twixt the two; Into the sudden glory,

Out of the dark he trod, Departing from before thee

At once to light and GOD! For the first face, beholding

The Christ's in its divine;
For the first place, the golden

And tideless hyaline;
With trees, at lasting summer,

That rock to tuneful sound,
While angels, the new comer,

Wrap a still smile around. Oh, in the blessed psalm, now,

His happy voice he tries, Spreading a thicker palm-bough,

Than others, o'er his eyes ; Yet still, in all his singing,

Thinks highly of thy song Which, in his life's first springing,

Sang to him all night long, And wishes it beside him,

With kissing lips that cool And soft did overglide him,

To make the sweetness full. Look up, O mourning mother,

Thy blind boy walks in light!
Ye wait for one another,

Before God's infinite!
But thou art now the darkest,

Thou mother left below
Thou, the sole blind—thou markest,

Content that it be so, Until ye two give meeting

Where Heaven's pearl-gate is,
And he shall lead thy feet in,

As once thou leddest his ! Wait on, thou mourning mother! (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

LITTLE CHARLIE.

(A CHILD'S LIFE AND DEATH.)

Rev. DR. GEORGE ASPINALL.

Born upon a happy day,
Youngest child of all the four!
Mother's breast, another baby

Ne'er shall suckle more;
Mother, make the most of this,
Seal it with thy fondest kiss !

Plants on moisture thrive and climb,
Gently rear the weenie thing,
Dip its supple limbs in water,

From the healthful spring;
Bathe it till its blood doth glow,
Make it clap its hands and crow!

Lo! the christ'ning day hath come,
Little sisters, little brother,
Gaze with wonder on the infant,

In the arms of mother;
Lo! they lave with drops its brow,
And its name is CHARLIE' now !

Peerie mannie, babe of beauty,
Yet! all pure and undefil'd,
All the mother's soul is center'd

In that bonnie child;

God doth need him; Charlie, boy,
Whence that hectic, burning glow,
That enfires thy cheek, then leaves it

Pale as driven snow?
Eyes that sparkle, then grow dim,
Weariness in ev'ry limb?
Ah, relentless, fatal fever!
Gnaw the ripe-fruits one by one,
But, oh! spare the widow's blossom,

Spare her youngest son!
Sable angel pass him o'er,
Mark the lintel of her door!

Vain entreaty! tread with softness!
Yonder curtain'd cot behold!
And
upon

it little Charlie,

Very white and cold! White, as lilies of the spring, Still, as bird with broken wing!

Charlie! mother's fondest treasure,
Brother's playmate, sisters' pet,
On thy baby-cheek, death's signal

Now at length is set ;
Gone for aye the peach-bud's hue,
Quench'd the laughing eye of blue!

Little limbs, how still and quiet!
Tiny feet, your faery-tread
Never more shall wake the echoes,
Dead!

my Charlie, dead! Yet what knowledge on that brow, Child I thou'rt more than Man just now!

Courage! crush'd and stricken Rachel, Weeping blood-drops day and night, Recollect, the darkest storm-clouds

Have a lining bright!

And no cloud by Him is sent
That's not fleec'd with soft intent!

What though yon small house is empty,
Yonder tenement of clay!
Christ has call'd thy little Charlie,
To Himself

away;
Call’d him to a nobler lot,
He who said, 'Forbid them not!'
Wailing mother, if their angels,
Aye behold the 'Father's Face,'
In God's Heaven be sure that children,

Hold no joyless place;
And if this indeed be so,
Little Charlie's there, we know !
Little sisters, little brother,
Once again ye group around !
But 'tis now, to lay your

Charlie
In the church-yard ground;
Ah, what sobs! what smother'd pain !
Tears are falling thick as rain !
Yet, О children! yet fond Rachel !
Look above-beyond the grave !
And believe that Christ is mighty

All His lambs to save!
Charlie now, His praises sings,
Soaring high, on Seraph-wings !!

(Copyright-Contributed.)

A SCENE FROM THE HONEYMOON.

JOHN TOBIN.

(John Tobin was born at Salisbury, in 1770. He was brought up to the law, but, Shakspeare proving more attractive to him than Blackstone, he adopted the stage as a profession, and wrote several dramas, of which “ The Curfew' and “The Honeymoon

are the most noteworthy : the latter, in some of the scenes, strongly resembles “ The Taming of the Shrew," but it was very successful. Tobin died 1804.]

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Enter the Duke, leading in JULIANA, L. Duke. (Brings a chair forward, C., and sits down.) You are welcome home.

Jul. (Crosses, R.) Home ! You are merry; this

retired spot

Would be a palace for an owl!

Duke. Tis ours.-
Jul. Ay, for the time we stay in it.
Duke. By Heaven, this is the noble mansion that I

spoke of ! Jul. This! You are not in earnest, though you bear it With such a sober brow.—Come, come, you jest.

Duke. Indeed I jest not; were it ours in jest,
We should have none, wife.

Jul. Are you serious, sir ?
Duke. I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke.
Jul. No duke ?
Duke. But of my own creation, lady.

Jul. Am I betray’d-Nay, do not play the fool!
It is too keen a joke.

Duke. You'll find it true.
Jul. You are no duke, then ?
Duke. None.
Jul. Have I been cozen'd ?

[Asiát. And

you have no estate, sir ? No palaces, nor houses ?

Duke. None but this :-
A small snug dwelling, and in good repair.

Jul. Nor money, nor effects ?
Duke. None that I know of.

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