They tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er-- That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, Whispering to thee--and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven! And what is thy far errand, my fair child? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, To find thy way through darkness home again? Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, The cherub and the angel thou may'st be, A life's probation in this sadder world? Art thou with memory of two things only, Music and light, left upon earth astray, And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, Look'd for with fear and trembling? God! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer, To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering--leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone! I feel my feebleness. Let _these_ stay on-- The angels who now visit her in dreams! Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more! And let the light and music, which the world Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails with sweet recognition, be to her A voice to call her upward, and a lamp To lead her steps unto Thee! --_N. P. Willis._ GIVE ME THY HEART. With echoing steps the worshipers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone, with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there! In the dark church she knelt alone; Her tears were falling fast; "Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death Upon my soul are cast! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chosen the better part?"-- What voice came through the sacred air?-- "_My child, give me thy Heart!_" "Have I not laid before Thy shrine My wealth, O Lord?" she cried; "Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride? Have I not bade youth's joys retire, And vain delights depart?"-- But sad and tender was the voice,-- "_My child, give me thy Heart!_" "Have I not, Lord, gone day by day Where Thy poor children dwell; And carried help, and gold, and food? O Lord, Thou knowest it well? From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart:"-- More sad, more tender was the voice,-- "_My child, give me thy Heart!_"