A MOTHER'S DREAM.

MY LUCY was a lovely girl,

Sweet temper'd, kind, and free;

With eyes like gems, and rosy cheeks-
Her heart right full of glee.

And oft she kneel'd at eventide,
And pray'd to Him above,
To bless her and her parents dear,
The objects of her love.

But sickness came with heavy gloom,
Around my lovely child :

No more she sang her holy hymns,
But moan'd in accents wild.

Her beauteous face was pale as death;
I watch'd her night and day:
Her form reduced to skin and bone-

She faded fast away.

The tears bedew'd her father's cheeks,

While bending down to pray,

That Heaven would spare our darling child.

And take her ills away.

Weary and worn, I sunk to rest,

And as in sleep I lay,

Lo! 1 beheld a glorious dream,
As bright as heavenly day.

Methought I saw an angel fair,
In aspect meek and mild;

Array'd in white, with brilliant wings-
He hover'd o'er my child.

"I come," he said, "from God above To bear thy child away,

To yon bright world of peace and love, In everlasting day."

And up I thought I saw him bear

My Lucy far away,

But as she rose high in the air,

Methought I heard her say

"Weep not, dear Mother, do not weep, I shall be happy now;"

Then I awoke out of my sleep,
The dream alarmed me so.

Unto her little bed I went,

But still in death she layThe angel truly had been sent, To fetch her soul away!

THE CHERUB.

BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light, alone,

Art thou hasting now on that golden wing
With the burning seraph choir to sing?

Or stooping to earth in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless ?

Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from that world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

To the better thoughts, and the better skies,
Where heaven's unclouded glory lies,
Winning our hearts by a blessed guile,
With that heavenly look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,
With the look, with the voice, of our darling boy,
Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts,
He had twined about with his infant arts,

To dwell from sin and sorrow far

In the golden orb of his little star

There he rejoiceth, while we, oh! we
Long to be happy and safe as he.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and fears to cease,
Wiping the tears that, unbidden, start

From their fountain deep, in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our weary way,

Lest our hearts should faint, or our feet should stray,
Till crown'd for the conquest at last we shall be,
Beautiful thing! with our boy and thee!

KIND WORDS.

A LITTLE word in kindness spoken,

A motion or a tear,

Has often heal'd the heart that's broken,
And made a friend sincere.

A word-a look-has crush'd to earth
Full many a budding flower,
Which, had a smile but own'd its birth,
Would bless life's darkest hour.

Then deem it not an idle thing

A pleasant word to speak;

The face you wear, the thoughts you bring A heart may heal or break.

PARTING.

I NEVER cast a flower away,

The gift of one that cared for me,-
A little flower, a faded flower,-
But it was done reluctantly.

I never looked a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,
E'en from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word "Farewell,"
But with an utterance faint and broken,
A heart-sick yearning for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.

I KNEW a beauteous little child,
Happy, innocent, and mild,

And fair to look upon;

But though she was strong, yet she lived not long; For, at three years old,

The tale was told,

That little Kate was gone!

She scarcely opened her eyes upon the world,
To glad those round her with her childish play,
Ere Death his fatal weapon hurl'd,

And snatch'd our Kate away.

However, what kind heart would grieve

That little Kate should leave

This world below, of vice and woe,

For one above,

Where discords cease, and all is peace,

And unity, and love?

A PRAYER FOR PENITENTS.

ETERNAL God, who hatest
No work that thou createst;
And grantest free remission
To all who feel contrition;
Make these hard hearts relenting,
That we, our sins lamenting,
Our wretchedness deploring,
Thy boundless grace adoring,
May peace divine inherit,
Through our Redeemers' merit!

N. W. F.