That the beautiful child-the bright star of his day,
Was e'en then like the dew-drops-dissolving away.
Oh! sad was the father, when lo! in the skies
The rainbow again spread its beauteous dyes;
And then he remembered the maxims he'd given,
And thought of his child and the dew-drops-in Heaven.

THE CHILD AND THE STARS.

"THEY tell me, dear father, each gem in the sky
That sparkles at night is a star;

But why do they dwell in those regions so high,
And shed their cold lustre so far?

I know that the sun makes the blossoms to spring,
That it gives to the flow'rets their birth,

But what are the stars? do they nothing but fling
Their cold rays of light upon earth?"

"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
Of his glory whose throne is above,

That tell us, who dwell in these regions of night,
How great is His goodness and love."

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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,
Grow gray, as the old man's, weak and poor,
Who ask'd for alms at our pillar'd door?
Shall I look as sad, shall I speak as slow
As he, when he told us his tale of woe?

Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim?
Tell me, Oh mother! shall I grow like him?

"He said-but I knew not what he meant-
That his aged heart with sorrow was rent.
He spoke of the grave as a place of rest,
Where the weary sleep in peace, and are blest;
And he told how his kindred there were laid,
And the friends with whom, in his youth, he play'd;
And tears from the eyes of the old man fell,

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;

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And pull'd young flowers, where they grew 'neath the beams

Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams;—
Yet he left all these through the world to roam!
Why, Oh mother! did he leave his home?"

"Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child!
The fancies of youth and age are beguiled;—
Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair turn gray,
Time cannot steal the soul's youth away!
There's a land, of which thou hast heard me speak,
Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek;

But in joy they live, fair boy! like thee-
It was there the old man long'd to be!

"For he knew that those with whom he had played,
In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade-
Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth
Brighten'd the gloom of this sinful earth-
Whose names from our world had passed away,
As flowers in the breath of an autumn day
He knew that they, with all suffering done,
Encircled the throne of the Holy One!

"Though ours be a pillar'd and lofty home,
Where Want, with his pale train, never may come,
Oh! scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest,
Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest;
For He, who hath made the poor, may soon
Darken the sky of our glowing noon,

And leave us with woe, in the world's bleak wild-
Oh! soften the griefs of the poor, my child!"

WILLIAM KEATE.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

THE tutored mind here justly learns
How human hopes to prize,

As round these trophied walls she turns
Her meditating eyes.

The sculptured urn, the mimic bust,
The grave in pomp arrayed,
Serve but to teach us man is dust!
His life a fleeting shade!

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,
Lost its enlivening themes;
Mute and unstrung the poet's lyre,
Closed fancy's rapturous dreams.

Stop, stranger, whosoe'er thou art,
And to thyself be just;

These mouldering tombs address thine heart:
Catch wisdom from the dust,

Religion, only, forms man's soul
Calmly to view his end;

Can his vain passions best control,—
In life, in death, a friend.

A day will come, in Time's long reign,
(Such hope hath Heaven revealed,)
When graves shall render up again

Those whom they once concealed.

Then shall Creation's mighty Lord
Bid every slumberer rise:

And angels' tongues this truth record,-
The virtuous were the wise.

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ROBERT GILFILLAN.*

THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

THE poor man's grave! this is the spot.
Where rests his weary clay;
And yet no gravestone lifts its head
To say what gravestones say!
No sculptured emblems blazon here,
No weeping willows wave,

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,
As softly does repose,

Though marbled urn around his grave
No idle incense throws!
His lowly turf it burdens not,

Yet that is ever green;

And hopping near it oft at morn,
The little redbreast's seen!

For none disturbs the poor man's grave—
To touch it who would dare,

Save some kind hand to smooth the grass,
That grows all wildly there!

The poor man's grave! call it his home-
From sorrow all secure-

For woe and want vex him no more,
Whom fortune stamped as poor!

The poor man's grave!-a lesson learn,
And profit by't who can—
Here lies a man all nobly poor,

And yet an honest man!

He was a man well known for worth,
But all unknown to fame;

And yet within his village bounds,
He did not lack a name!

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!