en disgraced by such unscrupulous, despicable, and
short-sighted ministers.

THE INFANT'S BURIAL.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

I.

'Dust unto dust!' Sweet child!
Was that dark sentence ever meant for thee?
For that bright form, that tablet undefiled,
Creation's mystery?
No no, it could not be, for GOD is just;
That beauteous brow! oh, who could call that dust?
And yet methought I heard
Those words slow uttered o'er thy tiny grave,
As though that Eden-calm had e'er been stirred
By Passion's stormy wave.
It should have been, 'Angels an Angel meet;
Seraphs on high a sister-seraph greet!'

II.

'Earth unto earth;' 'tis well
That sordid earth should pass to earth again:
In those dark fanes where truth has ceased to dwell,
Why should the shrine remain?
Deep in the dust let all such pass away;
Why should they not?--clay mingles but with clay:
Such is dark Manhood's prime,
From whose high nature all of Heaven has past,
Whose once pure mould is deeply dyed with crime;
Bound down with fetters fast:
Gone, gone is all of holiness and worth,
And what remains is naught indeed but earth.

III.

'Ashes to ashes?' Yes!
_Let_ it be thus with those whom age has chilled,
Whose life is but the dying ember's glow--
_There_ let it be fulfilled!
Say, 'When the altar-fires but dimly burn,
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust' return!'
And with that aged band,
The blackened craters of whose hearts are charred
By scathed hopes and Hate's undying brand;
Let not this fate be marred:
Ope wide thy portals, Grave! Death, pass them down!
For these, and such as these, are all thine own.

IV.

But oh, my beauteous one!
This gloomy path should not by thee be trod;
The grave, the worm, should not by _thee_ be known--
Go thou direct to GOD!
Thy passport white at Heaven's gate unroll,
(No dark hand-writing e'er hath soiled that scroll.)
'Twas thus the Saviour spoke:
'Those little children; suffer them to come.'
The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters broke
Which kept thee from thy home:
Awhile life's threshhold thou didst press with glee,
Then turned away; _this_ life was not for thee!