I do not think his light blue eyes are, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of mind and tender feeling, And his very look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folks, who pass him in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his quiet song of love, when left to play alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As meet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love;
And if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes may dim,
God comfort us for all the love that we shall lose in him!
I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by months and years, where he is gone to dwell;
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow:
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth
feel,
Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know, for God doth tell me this, that now he is at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast;
I know his spirit feels no more the weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh;
I know that we shall meet our babe, his mother dear, and I,
When God himself shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease,
Their lot may here be grief and care, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,
But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever!
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still may be,
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's
misery,
When we groan bencath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again!
39. THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.
distant countries have I been,
And yet, I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such an one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet;
Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad,
And in his arms a lamb he had.
He saw me, and he turn'd aside,
As if he wish'd himself to hide;
Then with his coat he made essay
To drive those briny tears away.
I follow'd him, and said-"My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
"Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow:
To-day I fetch'd him from the rock-
He is the last of all my flock.
"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
'Though little giv'n to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I number'd a full score,
And every year increased my store.
"Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I rais'd,
As sweet a flock as ever graz'd!
Upon the mountain did they feed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
This lusty lamb, of all my store,
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.
"Six children, sir, had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the parish ask'd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man
My sheep upon the mountain fed -
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread."
"Do this; how can we give to you," They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
"I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me, it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me
To see the end of all my gains, -
The pretty flock which I had rear'd,
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away
For me it was a woeful day.
"Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopp'd
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive,
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say that, many a time,
I wish'd they all were gone -
Reckless of what might come at last,
Were but the bitter struggle past.
"To wicked deeds I was inclin'd,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort, could I find;
No ease, within doors, or without;
And crazily, and wearily,
I went my work about,
Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.
"Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store,
I lov'd my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time!
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I pray'd, yet every day I thought
I loved children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seem'd to melt away.
They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,·
A lamb, a wether, and an ewe;
And then at last from three to two:
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one;
- And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetch'd it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock!"
40. VICTORIA'S TEARS.
"MAIDEN, heir of kings,
A king hath left his place;
The majesty of death hath swept
All other from his face.
And thou upon thy mother's breast,
No longer lean adown —
But take the glory for the rest,
And rule the land that loves thee best."
The maiden wept,
She wept to wear a crown.
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