Weep not for her; — by fleet or slow decay,

It never grieved her tender heart, to mark The playmates of her childhood wane away,

Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark. Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, She passed, as 'twere, on smiles from earth to Heaven!

Weep not for her.

Weep not for her; - it was not hers to feel

The mis’ries that corrode amassing years, -
'Gainst years of baffled bliss the heart to steel;

To wander, sad, down age's vale of tears,
As whirl the withered leaves from friendship’s tree,
And on life's wintry earth alone to be:

Weep not for her.

Weep not for her ;

she is an angel now, And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise ; All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,

Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes !
Victorious over death to her appear
The vistaʼd joys of Heaven's eternal year:

Weep not for her.

Weep not for her; her memory is the shrine

Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers; Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Rich as the rainbow with its hues of light, — Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night :

Weep not for her.

Weep not for her ; there is no cause of woe !

But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,

And from earth's low defilements hold thee back;

So when a few fleet swerving years have flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate, and lead thee on!

Weep not for her.

D. M. MOIR.

THE DYING CHILD

MOTHER, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;

Let me repose upon thy bosom seek; But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,

Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. Here it is cold ; the tempest raveth madly;

But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright; I see the angel children smiling gladly,

When from my weary eyes I shut the light.

Mother, one steals beside me now! and, listen ;

Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord ? See how his white wings beautifully glisten!

Surely those wings were given him by our Lord ! Green, gold, and red are floating all around me;

They are the flowers the angel scattereth : Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me?

Or, Mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going ?

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine? Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing:

I will, dear Mother, will be always thine ! Do not sigh thus, - it marreth my reposing ;

And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee ! Oh, I am tired, — my weary eyes are closing ;

Look, Mother, look! the angel kisseth me!