Soften the anguish of thy parting soul, And were not thy dear little arms outstretched To meet his fond caress! Thou sleepest, child, Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves, And I have never gazed upon thy grave. No tears of deep affection ever blend With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall Upon the turf that lies above thy breast; But, oh! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring, The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreaths Of buds and blossoms—there, at morn and eve, The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes Its holiest whispers in the springing grass As if communing with thee—there the birds Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour Their sweet, unearthly melodies—and there At the soft twilight hour young angels come To hover o’er the spot on silver wings, And mark it with their shining foot-prints. Thou Art gone, my child—a sweet and holy bud Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes; But yet we should not mourn. ’Tis joy to know That thou hast gone in thy young innocence And purity and beauty from a dark, Ungentle world, where many snares beset The path of manhood. Ay, ’tis joy to know That the Eolian lyre of thy young soul Gives out its music in the Eden clime, Unvisited by earth’s cold, bitter winds, Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains, Its tempests and its lightnings. My sweet child, Thou art no more a blossom of the earth, But, oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell On our sad spirits. ’Tis a lovely flower On memory’s lonely stream, a holy star In retrospection’s sky, a rainbow-gleam Upon the tempest-clouds of life. Our hearts, Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, love, and thus They lean to heaven, for thou art there. Yes, thou And thy young sister are in heaven, while we Are lingering on the earth’s cold desert. Come, Ye two sweet cherubs of God’s Paradise, Who wander side by side, and hand in hand, Among the Amaranthine flowers that bloom Beside the living waters—come, oh come, Sometimes upon your bright and snowy wings, In the deep watches of the silent night, And breathe into our souls the holy words That ye have heard the angels speak in heaven. * * * * * PEDRO DE PADILH. BY J. M. LEGARE. (_Continued from page 97._) Spain, and Tercera. } AD. 1583. }