WEE WILLIE.

WEE WILLIE. - Moir.

FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest!
Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well!
God, who lent thee, hath recalled thee
Back with him and his to dwell.
Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow had shed,
When thy spirit joined the seraphs,
. And thy dust the dead.

Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling,
Shone thy presence bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest to pleasure;
To our sorrows thou wert balm;
Brighter beamed thine eyes than summer,
And thy first attempt at speech
Thrilled our heart-strings with a rapture
Music ne'er could reach.

As we gazed upon thee sleeping,

With thy fine, fair locks outspread,
Thou didst seem a little angel,

Who to earth from heaven had strayed;
And, entranced, we watched the vision,
Half in hope, and half affright,
Lest what we deemed ours, and earthly,
Should dissolve in light.

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,
Sullen clouds begrimed the sky,

When the first drear doubt oppressed us,
That our child was doomed to die!
Through each long night-watch, the taper
Showed the hectic of his cheek;

And each anxious dawn behe'd him
More worn out and weak.

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Like the shot-star, in blue midnight,
Like the rainbow, ray by ray,
Thou wert waning as we watched thee,
Loveliest in thy last decay!
As a zephyr, so serenely

Came and went thy last, low breath,
That we paused, and asked our spirits,
Is it so? Can this be death?

Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones,
Of how dear ye were to us,

Why should dreams of doubt and darkness
Haunt our troubled spirits thus ?

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
Blest, forever blest, are ye,

'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,

We are wicked- we are weary ·
For us pray, and for us plead;
God, who ever hears the sinless,
May through you the sinful heed;
Pray that, through the Mediator,
All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of heaven!

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THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And, rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel's sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year.

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"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped; Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again.

The early way while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up Creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ;
Become the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died;
They sought God side by side.

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THE CHIMNEY SWEEP.

THE CHIMNEY SWEEP.

SWEEP ho! Sweep ho!

He trudges on through sleet and snow.
Tired and hungry both is he,
And he whistles vacantly.
Sooty black his rags and skin,
But the child is fair within.
Ice and cold are better far
Than his master's curses are.
Mother of this little one,
Could'st thou see thy little son!
Sweep ho! Sweep ho!

He trudges on through sleet and snow.
At the great man's door he knocks,
Which the servant maid unlocks.
Now let in with laugh and jeer,
In his eye there stands a tear.
He is young, but soon will know
How to bear both word and blow.
Sweep ho! Sweep ho!
In the chimney sleet and snow.
Gladly should his task be done,
Were 't the last beneath the sun.

Faithfully it now shall be,

But, soon spent, down droppeth he.
Gazes round, as in a dream,
Very strange, but true, things seem.

Led by a fantastic power

Which sets by the present hour,

Creeps he to a little bed,

Pillows there his aching head,

And, poor thing! he does not know

There he lay long years ago!

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

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THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.- Browning.

MORNING, evening, noon, and night,
"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
By which the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell:

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God."

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done!
I doubt not thou art heard, my son,

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I

"Might praise Him, that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight.”