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 perplex'd 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 look's 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 play-fellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his quiet 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 our 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 shall 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 smiles were 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,

S

Are number'd 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 blesséd infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast;

I know his spirit feels no more the 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 befals 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!

MOULTRIE.

THE SEA-BIRD'S TALE.

FAR, far o'er the wave is my island throne,
Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone;
Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
And nothing is heard but the ocean shock
And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
Of drowning men in " their agony."

I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
And sing of the feast that is made for me.
I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale.

When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
And the tempest sweeps in terror by,
I love to ride on the maddening blast,
And flap my wing o'er the fated mast,
And sing to the crew a song of fear,

Of the reef and the surge that await them here.

When the storm is done, and the feast is o'er, I love to sit on the rocky shore,

And tell in the ear of the dying breeze,

The tales that are hush'd in the sullen seas-
Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge,
And left her fate to the sea-bird's dirge-
Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride,
And his story left to the secret tide-

Of the father that went on the trustless main,
And never was met by his child again—
And the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal.

I tell of the ship that hath found a grave—
Her spars still float on the restless wave,
But down in the halls of the sullen deep,
The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep.

I saw the storm as it gathered fast,
I heard the roar of the coming blast,

I mark'd the ship in her fearful strife,

As she flew on the tide "like a thing of life.”
But the whirlwind came-and her masts were wrung
Away, and away on the waters flung:

I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck,

And scream'd in delight o'er the coming wreck

I flew to the reef with a heart of glee,

And wiled the ship to her destiny.

On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rush'd,
And the sea through her riven timbers gush'd—
On the whirling surge the wreck was flung,

And loud on the gale wild voices rung.