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He hath a happy cherub's smile,
He hath a robe of white,
He gathers ever-blooming flowers,
Which no cold storm may blight.
'T was sweet to take him in my arms,
And watch his laughing eyes,
But he has found more perfect joy
Above the cloudless skies.
Our blessed grandsire is in Heaven,
For so my parents said,
With him my darling brother lives,
O say not, he is dead.
Letter from a Mother to her little Boy.
WRITTEN AT NIAGARA.
My little son, my little son,
God give his grace to thee,
