JUDGE not! The workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God's pure light may only be A scar, brought from some well-won field. Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight,

May be a token, that below The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal, fiery foe, Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, And cast thee shuddering on thy face.

The fall thou darest to despise - Perchance the slackened angel's hand

Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand;

Or, trusting less to earthly things,

May henceforth learn to use his wings.

"I SHALL MISS HIM, WHEN THE FLOWERS COME, IN THE GARDEN WHERE HE PLAYED.'"

Judge Not 780

I AM all alone in my chamber now,

And the midnight hour is near, And the faggot's crack, and the clock's dull tic

Are all the sounds I hear; And over my soul in its solitude

Sweet feelings of sadness glide; And my heart and my eyes are full when I thin

Of the little boy that died.

I went home one night to my father's house -

Went home to the dear ones all, And softly I opened the garden gate,

And softly the door of the hall; My mother came out to meet her son.

She kissed me, and then she sighed, And her head fell on my neck, and she wept

For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,

As still and cold he lay. And thought what a lovely child he had been,

And how soon he must decay; "O Death, thou lovest the beautiful!"

In the woe of my spirit I cried, For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair,

Of the little boy that died.

Again I will go to my father's house -

Go home to the dear ones all, And sadly I'll open the garden gate,

And sadly the door of the hall; I shall meet my mother, but, nevermore,

With her darling by her side; And she'll kiss me and sigh, and weep again

For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him, when the flowers come,

In the garden where he played; I shall miss him more by the fireside,

When the flowers have all decayed; I shall see his toys and his empty chair,

And the horse he used to ride; And they will speak, with silent speech,

Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again,

With her playmates about the door, And I'll watch the children at their sports,

As I never did before; And if, in the group, I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing-eyed, I'll look to see if it may not be

The little boy that died.

We shall go home to our Father's house -

To our Father's house in the skies, Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight,

And our love no broken ties; We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace,

And bathe in its blissful tide; And one of the joys of our Heaven will be

The little boy that died.

And therefore, when I'm sitting alone,

And the midnight hour is near, And the faggot's crack and the clock's dull tick

Are the only sounds I hear, O! sweet o'er my soul in its solitude

Are the feelings of sadness that glide, Though my heart and my eyes are full when I think

Of the little boy that died.