Fare-thee-well, our last and fairest, Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling To our sorrows thou wert balm ;- As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel, Who to earth from heaven had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light. Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, Sullen clouds begrimed the sky, When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us, That our child was doom'd to die. 1"And now for the rarest of all poetic merit-heart-subduing pathos. The Domestic Verses' themselves are a complete 'Worship of Sorrow. The simple, sobbing, wailing pathos of 'Casa Wappy' has drawn more tears of mothers than any other dirge of our day. Poem we are loth to call it: such things are not made by the brain-they are the spilth of the human heart, that wonderful fountain, fed from the living veins of Heaven, and welling over."-THOMAS AIRD. His son William Blackwood, who died at the age of fifteen months. Through each long night-watch, the taper Oh, the doubts, the fears, the anguish 'Twas even then Destruction's angel On our lintel set his sign; And we turn'd from his quick death-scene, As the beams of Spring's first morning Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Three for us yet gladden earth. Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Why, across the cold dim churchyard Flit our visions of despair? Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel Says, "Ye are not there!" Where then are ye? With the Saviour Mid the sinless, little children, Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest! THE LOST LAMB. A shepherd laid upon his bed, With many a sigh, his aching head, For him his favorite boy-to whom Death had been dealt-a sudden doom. "But yesterday," with sobs he cried, "Thou wert, with sweet looks, at my side Life's loveliest blossom, and to-day, Woe's me! thou liest a thing of clay! It cannot be that thou art gone; It cannot be that now, alone, A gray-hair'd man on earth am I, Whilst thou within its bosom lie? Methinks I see thee smiling there, With beaming eyes and sunny hair, As thou wert wont, when fondling me, To clasp my neck from off my knee! Was it thy voice? Again, oh speak, My son, or else my heart will break!" Each adding to that father's woes, Where all is heard, and felt, and seen- The body with the soul at war. 'Twas vain-'twas vain; he could not find A haven for his shipwreck'd mind: Sleep shunn'd his pillow. Forth he went- O'ershadow'd by its ancient yew, And, placid, in that calm profound, Bland was his visage, and his voice Is it not that which seemeth best That thou dost take, yet leave the rest?— Heart-struck, the shepherd home return'd; Again within his bosom burn'd The light of faith; and, from that day, He trode serene life's onward way. SPRING HYMN. How pleasant is the opening year! And bluer glows the arching sky; Of Winter slept both bud and bloom; But Nature now puts forth her strength, And starts renew'd, as from the tomb; Behold an emblem of thy doom, O man!-a star hath shone to saveAnd morning yet shall re-illume The midnight darkness of the grave! Yet ponder well, how then shall break The dawn of second life on theeShalt thou to hope-to bliss awake? Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee? Then shall pass forth the dread decree, That makes or weal or woe thine own: Up, and to work! Eternity Must reap the harvest Time hath sown. LILIES. "Look to the lilies how they grow!" 'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we, Then mourn not we for those we love, Shall He, who paints the lily's leaf, Who gives the rose its scented breath And leave His image, Man, to death? The following extracts from his "Sketches of Poetical Literaturo for the Past Half Century," will give some idea of Dr. Moir as a most tasteful and judicious critic: HEBREW POETRY. The most sublime poetry, by far, to which the world has ever listened, is that of the Hebrew. It is immeasurably beyond all Greek and all Roman inspiration; and yet its sole theme is the Great Jehovah, and the ways and wonders of His creation. All is simply grand, nakedly sublime; and man before his Maker, even in the act of adoration, is there made to put his lips in the dust. So have done the great bards of succeeding times: Milton, and Young, and Thomson, and Cowper, and Pollok. In approaching the shrine, they take off the sandals from their feet, well knowing that the spot whereon they stand is holy ground. But all not being great, alas! all do not so behave; and hence, in common hands, sacred poetry has become, not without reason, a subject of doubt and discussion; for in them error has dared to counsel infallibility -ignorance to fathom omniscience and narrow-minded prejudice to circumscribe the bounds of mercy-the human irreverently to approach the Divine-and "fools to rush in where angels fear to tread." |