For any dwelling place of man
As vainly did they seek-

He perished: and a voice was heard-
The widow's lonely shriek.

Not many steps, and she was left

A body without life:

A few short steps were the chain that bound The husband to the wife.

O sacred marriage-bed of death,
That keeps them side by side
In bond of peace, in bond of love,
That may not be untied!"

THE DYING CHILD'S REQUEST.
From Fulcher's Village Paupers.

COME closer to me, mother dear,
My heart is fill'd with fears;
My eyes are dark, I hear your sobs,
But cannot see your tears.

I feel your warm breath on my lips,
That are so icy cold;

Come closer, closer, mother dear,
Give me your hand to hold.

I quite forget my little hymn,
"How doth the busy bee;"
Which every day I used to say,
When sitting on your knee.

Nor can I recollect my prayers,
And you, dear mother, know,
That the great God will angry be,
If I forget them too.

And when dear father shall come home,

Oh will he not be vex'd?

"Give us this day our daily bread"

What is it that comes next?

"Thine is the kingdom and the power"— I cannot think of more;

It comes and goes away so quick,
It never did before.

Hush, darling! you are going, to
The bright and blessed sky;
Where all God's holy children go,
To live with Him on high.

But will he love me, mother dear,
As tenderly as you?

And will my father come one day,
And live there with me too?

But you must first lay me to sleep,
Where grandfather is laid;
Is not the graveyard cold and dark,
And shan't I feel afraid?

And will you every evening come,
And say my pretty prayer;
Over poor Lucy's little grave,
And see that no one's there.

And promise me when you shall die,
That they your grave shall make
The next to mine, that I may be
Close to you when I awake.

Nay, do not leave me, mother dear,
Your watch beside me keep;

My heart feels cold, the room's all dark,-
Now lay me down to sleep.

And should I sleep to wake no more,

Dear mother, then good bye:

Poor nurse is kind, but oh do you,

Be with me when I die.

THEY tell me I am motherless! they say my mother died When I was but an infant child, and that I sobbed and cried. They tell me too, that she who sets me often on her knee, Is not my mother-yet she is a mother kind to me.

Her face is very kind and calm, her eye is very mild-
She kisses me full oft, and says, I am "her pretty child!"
And often when she thinks I sleep, her soft hand pale
and fair,

Is laid upon my infant brow and then she breathes a prayer.

When sickness o'er my frame has spent its very weakening

powers,

She pulls for me, and brings them in, spring's earliest, sweetest flowers

And when my racking fevers rise, and soothing draughts

I'd sip,

She gently raises up my head, and cools my parched lip.

And when she sees that slumber's veil is gathering o'er my eye,

She pats my cheek, and sings to me the soothing lullaby. And Oh! I dream so sweetly then, of angels' visits here, And wake and find it true- for she, sweet one, is hovering

near.

And when I get my little books, she teaches me to spell,
Till words so difficult to call, I learn so very well-
And then she sweetly kisses me, and smoothes each
straggling curl,

And makes me love her when she says, "You are my own sweet girl."

Mother, I love her! from thy home 'mid heaven's eternal rest,

Where tears of anguish never fall, nor sorrows heave thy breast,

I know thou'lt smile to see thy child hath found a mother's

love,

In one whose tender spirit shall join with thine own above.

FROM THE POETIC MANUAL.

I LOVE the name of Doctor Watts,
Although he liv'd so long ago:—
He wrote those very pretty hymns,

"My God who makes the sun to know."
And "How delightful 'tis to see

A whole assembly worship thee."
His pieces are so beautiful,

In ev'ry verse, and ev'ry line;
Though thoughtless songs I may not read,
I like to read the songs divine.
And can repeat-yes, let me see,
Nine others, and "The busy Bee."

I'm glad I was not one of those
That mock'd the holy prophet so,
And to Elisha dar'd to say,

"Go up thou bald head-bald head go."
What wicked feelings it proclaims,

To think to call an old man names.

But Doctor Watts is gone to heav'n,
And little children too, are there,
For when the Saviour was on earth,
He very plainly show'd they were.
O may I join their happy throng,
And sing a yet diviner song!

TO A CHILD PLAYING IN A GRAVEYARD.
AUDACIOUS Wanton! Thou hast made the grave
Thy place of revel, and the light wind's breath
That stirs its flowers and bids thy tresses wave,
Not less disturbs thee than the thought of death.
Unconscious child! His ghastly works beneath
To thee are seenless; round thy infant brow
Fancy entwines an amaranthine wreath,

And paints thy future being blest as now.
Oh! when the awful truth shall stand revealed,
Death's dread reality, the grave's stern power,
Be He thy refuge who on Calvary sealed

Man's claim to immortality's bright dower;
Then mayest thou smile indeed, and on the grave,
Trampling with holy scorn, its darkest secrets brave.