MY CHILD.

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek him inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

MY CHILD

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there!-Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there!

He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!

JOHN PIERPONT

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.

THERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin :
Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell's window panes :
Wait till you come to forty year.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round! I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray :
Did not the fairest of the fair

Common grow and wearisome, ere
Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier:
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married! but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.