THE LOST BOY.

BY O. W. H.

How sweet to boyhood's glowing pulse
The sleep that languid Summer yields,
In the still bosom of the wild,

Or in the flowery fields!

So art thou slumbering, lonely boy—
But ah! how little deemest thou
The hungry felon of the wood,
Is glaring on thee now!

He crept along the tangled glen,
He panted up the rocky steep,
He stands and howls above thy head,
And thou art still asleep!

No trouble mars thy peaceful dream;

And though the arrow, winged with death, Goes glancing near thy thoughtless heart, Thou heedest not its breath.

Sleep on the danger all is past,

The watch-dog, roused, defends thy breast,
And well the savage prowler knows
He may not break thy rest!

ΤΟ

BLESSED thou art, and shalt be! though thy day
Hath not been cloudless, nor unknown the tear
Of secret grief, too early and severe-
Darkness and sorrow soon shall pass away.
As the disciples, when their aching eye
Caught the first dawning of the eastern light
That saw their Master rising-let thy sight
In faith and hope be ever fixed on high.
Therefore in patience wait the heavenly prize :
Then shall thy deeds in sweet remembrance rise
Before the throne. And why should earthly love,
When on thy cheek the seal of death is set,
Shed the vain tear, or witness with regret
The beautiful made permanent above?