The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will expand and bloom with unfading lustre!

Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your bright anticipations might have been darkened.  When it came to thread life’s strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed the guileless heart.

Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or enter.  And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you, as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the “land of the blest.”  Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise!

  “Then mourn not, though the loved one go
  Early from this world of woe;
  Upon yon bright and blissful shore
  You soon shall meet to part no more,
  ’Mid amaranthine flowers to roam,
  Where sin and death can never come.”

THE TREASURED RINGLET.

  I AM thinking how, one April eve,
    Upon the old arm-chair
  I sat, and how I fondly played
    With this brown lock of hair;
  Your head was pillowed on my breast,
    Your eyes were fixed on mine,
  I knew your heart was all my own,
    I know my own was thine.

  The balmy breath of violets
    Came floating in the room,
  And mingling with the rose’s sigh,
    Spread round a rich perfume;
  Yet sweeter was the warm breath which
    I felt upon my cheek,
  Than fragrance from the blushing rose,
    Or from the violet meek.

  Upon the oak the mocking-bird
    Was singing loud and clear,
  But notes more musical to me
    Were falling on my ear;
  For from your noble heart you poured
    Love’s low, yet thrilling tone,
  And every word your pure soul breathed
    Was answered by my own.

  How like a glorious rainbow, then,
    The future all appeared? 
  No care or sorrow then we knew,
    No disappointment feared. 
  The world’s rude waves had not begun
    Across our path to sweep,
  We never—­save from happiness—­
    Had cause to sigh or weep.

  But many weary years have passed
    Since that bright April eve,
  And you have learned since then to weep,
    And I have learned to grieve;
  And on thy brow, unfurrowed then,
    Time, and his sister, Care,
  Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed
    Their silver in thy hair.