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 kisses on the gentle brow,
  So cold and pallid now. 
  No more, no more! repining heart, be still,
  And trust in Him who doeth all things well.

  Oh, happy little one! 
  How soon her race was run—­
  Her pain and suffering o’er,
  Herself from sin secure. 
  Not hers to wander through the waste of years,
  Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;
  Nor care, nor strife,
  Dimmed her brief day of life. 
  All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove
  To guard from every ill my meek white dove.