When we know he hath a heart, Whose love will ne'er depart, "Till the worn out body die.

A young child's a thing of praise,
A fair child's a thing of praise;
For we know it hath a soul,
Under God's own blest control,
Which gives it sunny days.

But a fairer thing's not found,
In heaven or earth's not found,
Than the two together playing,
Each to the other saying,
What joy their souls have found.

Soon will the old man die;

The mortal old man will die;
For Death is standing near,

To carry him on his bier,

To the place where he shall lie.

The fair child may live long,
The young child may live long;
Long years must have run,
Ere it lie with the old man,
For it starteth fair and strong.

A PICTURE.

Yet not when they meet above,
Not when they embrace above,
Will each to each be nearer,

Each hath a child-like spirit,
Each hath a simple spirit;
Fair thoughts to each are given,
Like those they will in heaven
As a good reward inherit.

God hath given them to the child,

Youth hath given them to the child,

But thro' sad experience,

Will the hale old man go hence,
With a spirit meek and mild.

The old man a truth hath learned,
A heavenly truth hath learned,
That to be happy here,

He must the little one revere;

So to this teacher hath he turned.

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LIFE.

"This, above all, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow as the night the day,
Tho' canst not then be false to any man."

We are all wandering,
Rich treasures squandering,
Which God in his grace

Gave to the human race:

Fair and holy treasure,

To make Life lengthened pleasure.

These hearts of ours, that we

Make founts of misery,

Might flow with holy joy,

In man as well as boy;

But we shape them to new fashions,

Excluding holy passions,

Fostering frozen vipers there,

Which will kill the good and fair.
The good garden that God giveth,
To every soul that liveth,

LIFE.

We leave with wandering feet,
Searching out forbidden sweet.
The stars in heaven set,

We mortal fools forget;

To the ground we cast our faces,
Digging graves in darksome places;

We think not of the heart,

God has made of us a part,

Which ever doth aspire,

With a struggling strong desire,

Which is a treasury,

Where the servant memory

Might sedulously pour

Of pleasant days a store.

The flowers around us blushing,
The streams around us gushing,
The trees forever preaching
Kind words of holy teaching,
The woods, with merry sound,
The mountains girdling round,
The stars, like vestal virgins,
Ever strengthening holy urgings,
The years still onward hurrying,
The sexton ever burying,

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The green graves without number,
Where enshrined dead do slumber,
The lessons pure and mild,
That God giveth through the child,
All good things to us are none,
As through Life we hurry on.

How short-sighted are we mortals,
Ever standing at Death's portals,
About to enter in,

In impotence and sin,

Yet laugh with voice of scorn,
At kind voices that would warn.

From our bosoms how we drive

The good Priest that would us shrive.

Strength to me feeble give,

Demon kind! that I may live.

Thou that every where abideth,

Thou that on the strong wind rideth,
That in the blue sky smileth,
That in the flower beguileth,

From the parti-colored show

Of vice that hideth wo!