-Not now! 'twill not be now!-my aching sight
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness,
Bearing all strength away!

Leave me!-thou com'st between my heart and heaven!
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die.
Why must our souls thus love, and thus be riven?
Return!-thy parting wakes mine agony!
-Oh! yet awhile delay!

FAREWELL.

BYRON.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For others' weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'Twas vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh, more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again..
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain—

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

THE YOUNGLING OF THE FLOCK.

A. A. WATTS.

WELCOME! thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of bliss!

How have I looked, till hope grew sick, for moment bright as this;

Thou hast flashed on my aching sight when fortune's clouds are dark,

The sunny spirit of my dreams, the dove unto mine ark;

Oh no, not even when life was new,

were young

and love and hope

And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze

I hung,

Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep,

That stir my bosom's inmost strings as I watch thy placid sleep!

Though loved and cherished be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies,

The bud that blooms 'mid wintry storms more tenderly we prize;

One does but make our bliss more bright, the other

meets our eye,

Like a radiant star, when all besides have vanished from on high.

Sweet blossom of my stormy hour-star of my troubled heaven!

To thee that passing sweet perfume, that soothing light is given;

And precious art thou to my soul, but dearer far that thou,

A messenger of peace and love,-art sent to cheer me

now.

What though my heart be crowded close with inmates dear though few,

Creep in, my little smiling babe, there's still a niche for you!

And should another claimant rise, and clamour for a

place,

Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as fair a face!

I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes too long represt!

For weak as that low wail may seem to other ears than mine,

It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine!

It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the

birth

Of a new and blessed link of love, to fetter me to earth; And, strengthening many a bright resolve, it bids me do and dare

All that a father's heart may brave, to make thy sojourn fair!

I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may

fling

O'er all the promise of thy youth-the visions of thy

For I would not warp thy gentle heart-each kindlier impulse ban,

By teaching thee-what I have learned-how base a thing is man!

I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh is heir;

But 1 can arm thee with a spell life's keenest ills to

bear.

I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can bid thee

pray

For wealth this world can never give, nor ever take

away!

From altered friendship's chilling glance-from hate's envenomed dart;

Misplaced affection's withering pang- or "true love's" wonted smart,

I cannot shield my sinless child; but I can bid him

seek

Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave earth's malice weak.

But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird his care,

And tempers to the new-shorn lamb the blast it ill could bear,

Will still His guiding arm extend, his glorious plan

pursue,

And, if He gives thee ills to bear, will grant thee courage too!

Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last!

'Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long, long years have past;

To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side,

Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing, and my pride.

And when the world has done its worst-when life's fever fit is o'er,

And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more;

How sweet to think thou may'st be near, to catch my latest sigh,

To bend beside my dying bed, and close my glazing

eye.

Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is

given,

The mother's joy-the father's pride, the fairest boon of Heaven;

Their fireside plaything first, and then, of their failing strength the rock;

The rainbow to their waning years-the Youngling of their Flock!