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SELECT POETRY

Thou couldst not save from woe,
Or quell my foes within ;

Too soon I might have strayed below,
And sought the path of sin.

But safe for ever here,
I tread on holy ground;
And still I watch thee, mother dear,
And, viewless, hover round.
And when thy spirit flies
To this bright world of love ;
Then will I gladly close thine eyes, —
And welcome thee above.

 

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT

Erg sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came, with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
Coleridge.

 

THE THREE SONS.

I wave ason,a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of

gentle mould ;

They tell me that "unusual grace in all his ways

appears,

That my child is grave and wise of head, beyond

his childish years.