"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. His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and almost without warning, he died. MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER, Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage. The year rolls round, and brings again The bright, auspicious day, The marriage scene, the festive cheer, The group serenely gay, The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower O'er youth's fair trellis wound, And in that consecrated rite Their full fruition found. But One unseen amid the throng Drew near with purpose fell, And lo! the orange-flowers were changed To mournful asphodel. Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful Her chosen lord beside, But ere the sixth illumed the sky She was that dread One's bride. Yet call her not the bride of Death Though in his bed she sleeps, And broidering Myrtle richly green O'er her cold pillow creeps: She hath a bower where angels dwell, A mansion with the blest, For Jesus whom she trusted here, Receiv'd her to His rest. REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER, Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, July, 1859.