I saw thee only once, dear boy, and it may be, perchance,
  That ne’er again on earth my eyes shall meet thy gentle glance;
  Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art the child,
  With earnest eye, and frolic laugh, and look so clear and mild;
  For thee, the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are gone,
  And youth’s bright promise, gliding into manhood, has come on;—­
  And yet thine image, as a child, will ever stay with me,
  As bright as when, so long ago, I met and welcomed thee.

    What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy smiling eyes? 
  What made me all thy childish, winning ways so dearly prize? 
  It was thy likeness to another,—­one whose looks of love,
  No longer blessing earth, were met by angel eyes above. 
  Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant white,
  Nor the blue eyes so soft and deep, like violets dewy bright;
  But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweetness in thine
        eyes,
  The dimpling cheek that said, “Within, a sunny spirit lies,”
  The true and open brow, the bird-like voice, so free and clear,
  The glance that told, “I have not learned the meaning yet of fear,”
  And more than all, the trusting heart, so lavish of its treasure,
  In simple faith, its earnest love bestowing without measure;
  These, more than lines and colors, made a picture, warm and bright,
  Of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my earthly sight.

    The nature, beautiful and pure, he carried to the skies,
  Has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched by seraph eyes. 
  Dear boy! through this cold world thy earth-bound feet have trod;
        and now,
  Is the loving heart still thine?  Hast kept that true and open brow?

THE OLD CHURCH.

There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with the luxuriousness of our churches, and ascribe to the warmth and comfort, which contrast so strongly with the hardships of early times, the acknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations.  For my part, I see no necessary connection between discomfort and devotion. My soul, at least, sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that, when the latter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active.

Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with its capacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backs upon the minister; the seats made to rise and fall, for the convenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap of thunder; its many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old men’s seats, and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them,—­some with black-silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughts of air from the porchless doors; the old women’s seats, on the opposite side; the elevated row of pews round the sides of the church,