MY BOY.

I CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;

Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,
And, through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping towards the hall,

To give the boy a call,

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street,

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and`coloured hair;

And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that—he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes-cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt-

O'er it in prayer I knelt,

Yet my heart whispers that- he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by his bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly

Before the thought comes, that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there? Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear,

The grave

that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd-he is not there!

He lives! In all the past,
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now,

And on his angel brow

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, Thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That in the spirit-land,

Meeting at Thy right hand,

'Twill be in heaven we'll find that—he is there!

Rev. James Pierpont

THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK.

On! the old, old clock, of the household stock,
Was the brightest thing and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime rang still the sweetest.

'Twas a monitor too, though its words were few, Yet they lived though nations altered; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young When the voice of friendship faltered. "Tick, tick,” it said—“ quick, quick to bed— For ten I have given warning; Up, up and go, or else, you know,

You'll never rise soon in the morning."

A friendly voice was that old, old clock,
As it stood in the corner smiling,
And blessed the time with a merry chime,
The wintry hours beguiling.

But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,
As it called at daybreak boldly,

When the dawn looked grey o'er the misty way

And the early air blew coldly:

“Tick, tick,” it said—“ quick out of bed,

For five I have given warning;

You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning."

Still hourly the sound goes round and round,
With a tone that ceases never;

While the tears are shed for the bright days fled,
And the old friends lost for ever.

Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone
That warmer beat and younger;

Its hands still move, though hands we love
Are clasped on earth no longer.

"Tick, tick," it said; "to the churchyard bed,
The grave hath given warning:

Up, up, and rise, and look to the skies,

And prepare for a heavenly morning."

THE PET LAMB.

PART I.

ONCE on a time, a shepherd lived
Within a cottage small;

The grey thatched roof was shaded by
An elm-tree dark and tall;
While all around, stretched far away,
A wild and lonesome moor,

Except a little daisied field
Before the trellised door.

Now, it was on a cold March day,
When on the moorland wide
The shepherd found a trembling lanh
By its dead mother's side;

And so pitiful it bleated,

As with the cold it shook,

He wrapped it up beneath his coat,
And home the poor lamb took

He placed it by the warm fireside,
And then his children fed

This little lamb, whose mother died.
With milk and sweet brown brea!,
Until it ran about the floor,

Or at the door would stand;
And grew so tame, it ate its food
From out the children's hand.

It followed them where'er they went,
Came ever at their call,

And dearly was this pretty lamb

Beloved by them all.

And often on a market-day,

When cotters crossed the moor,

They stopped to praise the snow-white lamb

Beside the cottage-door;