Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be;

There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me

AND I, I had come back to an empty nest,
Which every bird's too wise for.

How I heard

My father's step on that deserted ground

His voice along that silence!

I

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

My Child

CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;

Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes, he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

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 paternal 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;
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.

Mother Love

WILL shut these broken toys away
Under the lid where they mutely bide;
I will smile in the face of noisy day,
Just as if baby had never died.

I will take up my work once more,
As if I had never laid it down;
Who will dream that I ever wore
Motherhood's regal, holy crown?

Man's way is hard and sore beset;
Many may fall but few can win.
Thanks, dear Shepherd! my lamb is safe,-
Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin.

Nevertheless, the way is long,

And tears leap in the light of the sun;
I'd give my world for a cradle-song,
And a kiss from baby—only one.

MARY CLEMMER.

L'

Bereaved

ET me come in where you sit weeping,―aye,

Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of.

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed

Their pressure round your neck, the hands you used

To kiss, such arms,

such hands, I never knew,

May I not weep with you?

Fain would I be of service say something
Between the tears that would be comforting, -
But ah! so sadder than yourself am I,

Who have no child to die.

S

So Tired

O tired; I fain would rest;
But Lord, Thou knowest best,
I wait on Thee.

I will toil on from day to day,

Bearing my cross, and only pray

To follow Thee.