And, as he's running by,
Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The

grave,

that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked ;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!
Father, Thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at Thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

THE HERITAGE.

JOHN RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;
A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,-
This is the best crop for thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

SONNET ON HIS

BLINDNESS.

JOHN MILTON.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide; And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

THOMAS HOOD.

'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran, and some that leapt
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouched by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can:
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;

L