Dear sister, has thy little son,
  Been snatched from thy embrace,
Thy fav’rite child, thy darling one,
  Has left a vacant place.

His father oft with little John
  Beguil’d the hours away,
To watch his little fav’rite son,
  Enjoy his childish play;

For there was laughter in his eye,
  And health was on his cheek,
I fancy that he’s standing by,
  And almost hear him speak.

The patt’ring of his little feet,
  In fancy’s ear is heard,
The music of his voice as sweet,
  As singing of a bird.

The objects that we fondly prize,
  How soon they pass away,
And we are left to realize,
  The emblems of decay.

Dear sister, be resigned then,
  Nor let your faith grow dim,
He cannot come to you again,
  But you can go to him.

SPRING.

Awake and sing, for early Spring
  Comes forth with beauty gay,
With joy elate, both small and great
  Now bless the happy day.

Through all the earth comes beauty forth,
  So sweet, so fresh and fair,
And ev’ry sound that echoes round,
  Comes with a gladsome air.

While from the hill the little rill,
  Comes trickling down so clear,
Its bubbling voice made me rejoice,
  In many an early year.

Along the mead where’er we tread,
  Will little flow’rets spring,
And through the air in colors rare,
  Waves many a tiny wing.

Back to their home, the songsters come,
  And gaily, blithely sing,
The sun looks gay, I love the day,
  The sweet and early spring.

HOPE.

When storms arise, and tumults jar,
  And wreck this mortal form,
There is a bright, a lovely star,
  That shines above the storm.

’Tis hope that buoys our spirits up,
  Along the chequer’d way,
And when we drain the bitter cup
  It points a brighter day.

Though all the ills of life stand by,
  It proffers still to save;
And when the shades of death are nigh,
  It looks beyond the grave.

AUTUMN.

How sad the breath of autumn sighs,
  With mourning and decay;
The woods are clothed in varying dyes,
  Of funeral array.

Where beauty bloomed of late around,
  On mountain top and vale,
Now wither’d foliage strews the ground,
  And tells a piteous tale.

And summer birds are on the wing,
  Bound for a warmer sky,
They greeted us in early spring—­
  They bid us now good bye.

So pass away our early years,
  Youth sinks into decay,
And age, like autumn soon appears,
  And quick we pass away.

MRS. IDA McCORMICK.