THE THREE SONS.

143

But I know (for God hath told me this) that

he is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,

But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things..

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever;

But if our own poor hearts fail not, he must be ours for ever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,—

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery,

144

PRIMROSE GATHERING.

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

MOULTRIE.

PRIMROSE GATHERING.

AWAKE, dearest Auntie, and open your door; The sun has been shining this hour or more. You promised last night in the morning you'd go, And show little Harry where primroses grow. I've wash'd my round face, and I've comb'd my brown hair;

The birds are awake, and the weather is fair.
My dear little basket I'll take with me, too;
I like it because 'twas a present from you.
We'll fill it with blossoms all pick'd in their
prime,
[thyme;

With garlands of hawthorn and cushions of
With daffodils yellow, and hyacinths blue;
And the best and the sweetest shall all be for you.
Make haste, dearest Auntie, and open your door;
I got up when the sun did, or rather before,
And I thought you'd be ready an hour ago,
To show little Harry where primroses grow.

THE END.

MRS. HUTCHINGS.

London: Robert K. Burt, Printer, Holborn Hill.