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And good luck to the miller

And to the miller's son;
And ever may the wind-wheel turn

While mountain waters run!

THE THREE SONS.

child is grave

The author of this exquisite poem is the Rev. THOMAS MOULTRIE, and it was, we believe, a contribution to one of the annuals many years ago. It has been often reprinted in collections of fugitive poetry, and probably few or none of our readers are unacquainted with it. Most certainly it is entitled to a place among BEAUTIFUL POETRY, for few things more beautiful exist in our language. The conception of the poem is quite original ; the description of the three little boys is a picture for a painter ; the sentiment is extremely touching. Few who are parents could read it without a sympathetic sob. The simplicity of the language assorts well with the simplicity of the idea, and the pure spirit of pious resignation which it breathes—the consolation found by the Christian in the promises of his faith—is the poetry of religion. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle

mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my

and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air : I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency; But that which others most admire is the thought which

fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth

find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children

talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or

ball. But looks on manbood's ways and works, and aptly mimics

all.

walk;

like me,

His little heart is busy still

, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about

the next; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to

pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words

which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful

brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now ! I have a son—a second son—a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features beHow silver-sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my

knee. I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever

been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender

feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love

revealing: When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in

the street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone Will sing his little songs of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and

hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may

prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly

love. And if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his

age

I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone

to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were

given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in

Heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what look he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph

brow: The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he

doth feel, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not

reveal; But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at

rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving

breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless’d with endless dreams of joy for ever

fresh. I know the Angels fold him close beneath their glittering

wings, And soothe bim with a song that breathes of Heaven's

divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befals his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain

peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss

may sever, But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still

must be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this

world's misery; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief

and pain ; Oh! we'd rather lose our other two than have him here

again.

BALLAD.

Here is a sweet lyric by THOMAS MOORE. Mark the beauty of the lines we have set in italic.

Oh! do not look so bright and blest,

For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,

A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,

When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,

For, ah ! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.
Why is it thus, that fairest things

The soonest fleet and die ?
That, when most light is on their wings,

They're then but spread to fly?
And sadder still, the pain will stay,

The bliss no more appears ;
As rainbows take their light away,

And leave us but their tears !
Then, look not thou so bright and blest,

For ah ! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.

A SCULPTURED VASE.

The following delicious lines are by Keats ; suggested by a Sculptured Vase representing a procession with music. There is perfect originality in the thought, and the most refined taste is displayed in the composition. The poet has positively spiritualized hard stone.

HEARD melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on-
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fond youth, beneath the trees thou canst not leave,
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve,

She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss;
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

For simplicity of conception and language, in appropriateness of imagery and the solemn tone it breathes, this little poem has been rarely surpassed. It is by ALFRED TENNYSON,

LIFE and thought have gone away

Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide :
Careless tenants they !
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door, the shutter close,

Or through the windows we shall see

The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.

Come away: no more of mirth

Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,

And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for life and thought
Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious-
A great and distant city-have bought
Å mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stay'd with us!

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