"They all shall bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

THERE is nothing innocent or good, that dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it. When Death strikes down the innocent and young, for

every fragile form whose spirit is freed a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it with their light. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE LITTLE STEP-SON.

I HAVE a little step-son, the loveliest thing alive,
A noble, sturdy boy is he, and yet he 's only five;
His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow, his eyes are
black as jet,

And his lips are like two rose-buds, all tremulous and

wet.

His days pass off in sunshine, in laughter and in

song,

As careless as a summer-rill that sings itself along;

For like a pretty fairy-tale, that's all too quickly told, Is the young life of a little one that's only five years old.

He's dreaming in his happy couch before the day grows dark.

He's up with morning's rosy ray, a singing with the

lark!

Where'er the flowers are freshest, where'er the grass

is green,

With light locks waving on the wind his fairy form

is seen;

Amid the whistling March winds, amid the April showers,

He warbles with the singing-birds, and prattles to the flowers,

He cares not for the summer heat, he cares not for

the cold,

My sturdy little step-son, that 's only five years old.

How touching 't is to see him clasp his dimpled hands

in prayer,

And raise his little rosy face, with reverential air!

How simple is his eloquence! how soft his accents

fall,

When pleading with the King of kings to love and bless us all;

And when from prayer he bounds away in innocence and joy,

The blessing of a smiling God goes with the sinless

boy.

A little lambkin of the flock, within the Saviour's

fold

Is he, my lovely step-son, that's only five years old.

I have not told you of our home, that in the summer hours

Stands in its simple modesty, half hid among the

flowers;

I have not said a single word about our mines of

Our treasures are, this little boy, contentment, peace,

and health;

For e'en a lordly hall to us would be a voiceless place Without the gush of his glad voice, the gleams of his bright face:

And many a courtly pair, I ween, would give their gems and gold

For a noble, happy boy like ours, some four or five years old.

MORNING.

SOFT the air and fresh the dew,

Fragrance unconsumed, unworn, Earth is young and life is new, Childhood's heart is in the morn;

Birds, with wing upraised to heaven
Music utter hushed too soon,
Songs to favored morning given,
All unheard by sultry noon;

Softest quiet, sweet repose,

God's beloved and favored hour,

For his spirit lives and glows,

Waking in each wakening flower.

Such is youth, and this is thine,

Sweets like morning's self-revealing,

Softened dawnings all divine,

O'er the spirit's world are stealing;

Vigor, never known again,

Quiet, as no other hath,