HERBERT FOSS,

“Read more, Papa,” the loving infant cried,—

And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd

The ardent eye, devouring every word

Of his dear picture book. And then he spread

His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.

— The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy

To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;

And as they watch'd the smile of innocence

That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow

That Sabbath eve, they to each other said,

“How beautiful.”

There was another scene,—

The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,

Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.

And many a one who on that coffin look'd

And went their way, in tender whisper said

“How beautiful!”

Oh parents, ye who sit

Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room,

What if the darling of your fondest care

Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?

— Our dream is longer, but‘ tis mixed with tears.

For we are dreamers all, and only those

Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land

Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon

To give it light, how sweet to hear your child

Bid you “good morning” with his cherub tongue.