ish sleep; these things are
suddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacred
privileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions,
similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a true
eye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of things
thrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice of
conventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alike
without condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly take
the post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that the
lesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves and
flowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root of
love; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry custom
that, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven in
Nature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening and
shutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshine
and in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for small
duties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love.

"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN."

How quietly she lies!
Closed are the lustrous eyes,
Whose fringed lids, so meek,
Rest on the placid cheek;
While, round the forehead fair,
Twines the light golden hair,
Clinging with wondrous grace
Unto the cherub face.
Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,--
I would not have my darling wake to weep.

Mark how her head doth rest
Upon her snowy breast,
While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl,
One little shoulder nestles like a pearl,
And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp
White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp;
Blossoms most sweet
Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet,
Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair
Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there.

Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep,
That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep.
No balmy breath comes forth
From the slight-parted mouth;
Nor heaves the little breast,
In its unyielding rest;
Dead fingers clasp
Flowers in unconscious grasp;--
Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother!
'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.

No more I hear the voice,
Those loving accents made my heart rejoice;
No more within my arms
Fold I her rosy charms.
And, gazing down into the liquid splendour
Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender,
Print rapturous kiss