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

Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling
Shone thy presence bright and calm;
Thou didst add a zest of pleasure,

To our sorrows thou wert balm ;-
Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer;
And thy first attempt at speech
Thrill'd 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 stray'd;

And, entranced, we watch'd the vision,
Half in hope and half affright,

Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly,

Should dissolve in light.

Snows o'ermantled hill and valley,

Sullen clouds begrimed the sky,

When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us,

That our child was doom'd to die.

1"And now for the rarest of all poetic merit-heart-subduing pathos. The Domestic Verses' themselves are a complete 'Worship of Sorrow. The simple, sobbing, wailing pathos of 'Casa Wappy' has drawn more tears of mothers than any other dirge of our day. Poem we are loth to call it: such things are not made by the brain-they are the spilth of the human heart, that wonderful fountain, fed from the living veins of Heaven, and welling over."-THOMAS AIRD.

His son William Blackwood, who died at the age of fifteen months.

Through each long night-watch, the taper
Show'd the hectic of thy cheek;
And each anxious dawn beheld thee
More worn out, and weak.

Oh, the doubts, the fears, the anguish
Of a parent's brooding heart,
When despair is hovering round it,
And yet hope will scarce depart-
When each transient flush of fever
Omens health's returning light,
Only to involve the watchers
'Mid intenser night!

'Twas even then Destruction's angel
Shook his pinions o'er our path,
Seized the rosiest of our household,
And struck Charlie down in death-
Fearful, awful Desolation

On our lintel set his sign;

And we turn'd from his quick death-scene,
Willie, round to thine!

As the beams of Spring's first morning
Through the silent chamber play'd,
Lifeless, in my arms I raised thee,
And in thy small coffin laid;
Ere the day-star with the darkness
Nine times had triumphant striven,
In one grave had met your ashes,
And your souls in Heaven!

Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms
Of our hopes, our hearts, our hearth;
Two asleep lie buried under-

Three for us yet gladden earth.
Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie-
Willie, thee, our snow-drop pure-
Back to us shall second spring-time
Never more allure!

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, for ever 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, And the weary rest!

THE LOST LAMB.

A shepherd laid upon his bed, With many a sigh, his aching head, For him his favorite boy-to whom Death had been dealt-a sudden doom. "But yesterday," with sobs he cried, "Thou wert, with sweet looks, at my side Life's loveliest blossom, and to-day, Woe's me! thou liest a thing of clay! It cannot be that thou art gone; It cannot be that now, alone, A gray-hair'd man on earth am I, Whilst thou within its bosom lie? Methinks I see thee smiling there, With beaming eyes and sunny hair, As thou wert wont, when fondling me, To clasp my neck from off my knee! Was it thy voice? Again, oh speak, My son, or else my heart will break!"

Each adding to that father's woes,
A thousand bygone scenes arose;
At home-a-field-each with its joy,
Each with its smile-and all his boy!
Now swell'd his proud rebellious breast,
With darkness and with doubt opprest;
Now sank despondent, while amain
Unnerving tears fell down like rain:
Air--air-he breathed, yet wanted breath-
It was not life-it was not death-
But the drear agony between,

Where all is heard, and felt, and seen-
The wheels of action set ajar;

The body with the soul at war.

'Twas vain-'twas vain; he could not find A haven for his shipwreck'd mind:

Sleep shunn'd his pillow. Forth he went-
The moon from midnight's azure tent
Shone down, and, with serenest light,
Flooded the windless plains of night;
The lake in its clear mirror show'd
Each little star that twinkling glow'd;
Aspens, that quiver with a breath,
Were stirless in that hush of death;
The birds were nestled in their bowers;
The dewdrops glitter'd on the flowers:
Almost it seem'd as pitying Heaven
Awhile its sinless calm had given
To lower regions, lest despair
Should make abode for ever there;
So softly pure, so calmly bright,
Brooded o'er earth the wings of night.

O'ershadow'd by its ancient yew,
His sheep-cote met the shepherd's view;

And, placid, in that calm profound,
Ilis silent flocks lay slumbering round;
With flowing mantle by his side,
Sudden, a stranger he espied;

Bland was his visage, and his voice
Soften'd the heart, yet bade rejoice.
"Why is thy mourning thus ?" he said,
"Why thus doth sorrow bow thy head?
Why faltereth thus thy faith, that so
Abroad despairing thou dost go?
As if the God, who gave thee breath,
Held not the keys of life and death!—
When from the flocks that feed about,
A single lamb thou choosest out,

Is it not that which seemeth best

That thou dost take, yet leave the rest?—
Yes! such thy wont; and, even so,
With his choice little ones below
Doth the Good Shepherd deal; he breaks
Their earthly bands, and homeward takes,
Early, ere sin hath render'd dim
The image of the seraphim!"

Heart-struck, the shepherd home return'd;

Again within his bosom burn'd

The light of faith; and, from that day,

He trode serene life's onward way.

SPRING HYMN.

How pleasant is the opening year!
The clouds of Winter melt away;
The flowers in beauty reappear;
The songster carols from the spray;
Lengthens the more refulgent day;

And bluer glows the arching sky;
All things around us seem to say-
"Christian! direct thy thoughts on high
In darkness, through the dreary length

Of Winter slept both bud and bloom; But Nature now puts forth her strength, And starts renew'd, as from the tomb; Behold an emblem of thy doom,

O man!-a star hath shone to saveAnd morning yet shall re-illume

The midnight darkness of the grave! Yet ponder well, how then shall break The dawn of second life on theeShalt thou to hope-to bliss awake?

Or vainly strive God's wrath to flee? Then shall pass forth the dread decree, That makes or weal or woe thine own: Up, and to work! Eternity

Must reap the harvest Time hath sown.

LILIES.

"Look to the lilies how they grow!"

'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we,
Even in the simplest flowers that blow,
God's ever watchful care might see.
Yes! naught escapes the guardian eye
Of Him, who marks the sparrow's fall,
Of Him, who lists the raven's cry-
However vast, however small.

Then mourn not we for those we love,
As if all hope were reft away,
Nor let our sorrowing hearts refuse
Submission to His will to pay.

Shall He, who paints the lily's leaf,

Who gives the rose its scented breath
Love all His works except the chief,

And leave His image, Man, to death?
No! other hearts and hopes be ours,
And to our souls let faith be given
To think our lost friends only flowers
Transplanted from this world to Heaven.

The following extracts from his "Sketches of Poetical Literaturo for the Past Half Century," will give some idea of Dr. Moir as a most tasteful and judicious critic:

HEBREW POETRY.

The most sublime poetry, by far, to which the world has ever listened, is that of the Hebrew. It is immeasurably beyond all Greek and all Roman inspiration; and yet its sole theme is the Great Jehovah, and the ways and wonders of His creation. All is simply grand, nakedly sublime; and man before his Maker, even in the act of adoration, is there made to put his lips in the dust. So have done the great bards of succeeding times: Milton, and Young, and Thomson, and Cowper, and Pollok. In approaching the shrine, they take off the sandals from their feet, well knowing that the spot whereon they stand is holy ground. But all not being great, alas! all do not so behave; and hence, in common hands, sacred poetry has become, not without reason, a subject of doubt and discussion; for in them error has dared to counsel infallibility -ignorance to fathom omniscience and narrow-minded prejudice to circumscribe the bounds of mercy-the human irreverently to approach the Divine-and "fools to rush in where angels fear to tread."