That the beautiful child-the bright star of his day, THE CHILD AND THE STARS. "THEY tell me, dear father, each gem in the sky But why do they dwell in those regions so high, I know that the sun makes the blossoms to spring, But what are the stars? do they nothing but fling "My child, it is said, that yon stars in the sky, Are worlds that are fashion'd like this, Where the souls of the good and the gentle, who die, Assemble together in bliss; And the rays that they shed o'er the earth is the light That tell us, who dwell in these regions of night, 66 Then, father, why still press your hand to your brow, Why still are your cheeks pale with care? If all that was gentle be dwelling there now, Dear mother, I know, must be there." "Thou chidest me well," said the father, with pain, Thy wisdom is greater by far, We may mourn for the lost, but we should not complain, While we gaze on each beautiful star."* * The poetical works of this popular writer are published in a cons venient form, and at a very moderate price, by H. C. Clarke & Co. of London. INFANTINE INQUIRIES. WILLIAM P. BROWN. INFANTINE INQUIRIES. "TELL me, Oh mother! when I grow old, Will my hair, which my sisters say is like gold, Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim? "He said-but I knew not what he meant- And my sisters wept as they heard his tale! "He spoke of a home, where, in childhood's glee, He chased from the wild flowers the humming bee; And follow'd afar, with a heart as light As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's flight; 319 And pull'd young flowers, where they grew 'neath the beams Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams;— "Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child! But in joy they live, fair boy! like thee- "For he knew that those with whom he had played, "Though ours be a pillar'd and lofty home, And leave us with woe, in the world's bleak wild- WILLIAM KEATE. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. THE tutored mind here justly learns As round these trophied walls she turns The sculptured urn, the mimic bust, More than the morning vapour vain, Which melts away in air, Unless to wisdom he attain, And virtue be his care. THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE. Extinguished now is wit's bright fire, Stop, stranger, whosoe'er thou art, These mouldering tombs address thine heart: Religion, only, forms man's soul Can his vain passions best control,— A day will come, in Time's long reign, Those whom they once concealed. Then shall Creation's mighty Lord And angels' tongues this truth record,- 321 ROBERT GILFILLAN.* THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE. THE poor man's grave! this is the spot. No faint memorial, e'er so faint, Points out the poor man's grave! • The author of the "Gallery of Literary Portraits," and of numerous articles in "Tait's Magazine," and other periodical journals. No matter he as soundly sleeps, Though marbled urn around his grave Yet that is ever green; And hopping near it oft at morn, For none disturbs the poor man's grave— Save some kind hand to smooth the grass, The poor man's grave! call it his home- For woe and want vex him no more, The poor man's grave!-a lesson learn, And yet an honest man! He was a man well known for worth, And yet within his village bounds, For all the village came to him, When they had need to call; His council free to all was given, For he was kind to all! The young, the old, the sick, the hale, Found him a friend most sure; For he rejoiced in others' weal, Although himself was poor! |