KITTIE IS GONE.

The following beautiful and touching prose-poem was written by Mr. WILLIAM B. BRADBURY, the musical composer, on the death of his daughter, aged five years and seventeen days.

KITTIE is gone. Where? To heaven. An angel came, and took her away. She was a lovely child-gentle as a lamb; the pet of the whole family; the youngest of them all. But she could not stay with us any longer. She had an angel-sister in heaven, who was waiting for her. The angel-sister was with us only a few months, but she has been in heaven many years, and she must have loved Kittie, for everybody loved her. The loveliest flowers are often soonest plucked. If a little voice sweeter and more musical than others was heard, I knew Kittie was near. If my studydoor opened so gently and slyly that no sound could be heard, I knew Kittie was coming. If after an hour's quiet play, a little shadow passed me, and the door opened and shut as no one else could open and shut it, "so as not to disturb papa," I knew Kittie was going. When, in the midst of my composing, I heard a gentle voice saying, "Papa, may I stay with you a little while? I will be very still," I did not need to look off my work, to assure me that it was my little lamb. You staid with me too long, Kittie dear, to leave me so suddenly; and you are too still now. You became my little assistant - my home-angel my youngest and sweetest singing-bird, and I miss the little voice that I have heard in an adjoining room, catching up and echoing little snatches of melody as they were being composed. I miss those soft and sweet kisses. I miss the little hand that was always first to be placed upon my forehead, to "drive away the pain." I miss the sound of those little feet upon the stairs. I miss the little knock at my bed-room door in the morning, and the triple good-night kiss in the evening. I miss the sweet smiles from the sunniest of faces. I miss - oh! how I miss the foremost in the little group who came out to meet me at the gate for the first kiss. I do not stoop so low now, Kittie, to give that first kiss. I miss you at the table, and at family worship. I miss your voice in "I want to be an angel," for nobody could sing it like you. I miss you in my rides and walks. I miss you in the garden. I miss you everywhere; but I will try not to miss you in heaven. "Papa, if we are good, will an angel truly come and take us to heaven when we die?" When the question was asked, how little did I think the angel was so near! But he did "truly" come, and the sweet flower is translated to a more genial clime. "I do wish papa would come." Wait a little while, Kittie, and papa will come. journey is not long. He will soon be "home."

The

MINISTERING SPIRITS.

It is a beautiful belief,

That ever round our head
Are hovering on noiseless wing
The spirits of the dead.
It is a beautiful belief,
When ended our career,
That it will be our ministry
To watch o'er others here;
To lend a moral to the flower,

Breathe wisdom on the wind,
To hold commune at night's lone hour,
With the imprisoned mind;

To bid the mourner cease to mourn,
The trembling be forgiven;

To bear away from ills of clay,
The infant to its heaven.

THE WINTER BURIAL.

Composed on the burial of a child in a grave three feet deep in the snow.

Our baby lies under the snow, sweet wife, Our baby lies under the snow;

Out in the dark with the night,

While the winds so loudly blow.

Shall we shut the baby out, sweet wife,
While the chilling winds do blow ?

O, the grave is now its bed,

And its coverlet is snow.

O, our merry bird is soared, sweet wife,
That a rain of music gave !
And the snow falls on our hearts,

And our hearts are each a grave.

O, she was the lamp of our life, sweet wife, Blown out in a night of gloom!

A leaf from our flower of love,

Nipped in its fresh spring bloom.

But the lamp will shine above, sweet wife,

And the leaf again will grow,

Where there are no bitter winds,

And no dreary, dreary snow.

SHELDON CHADWICK.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierced the darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled,
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonored laid:

So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravished young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now, fond I bare my breast;

O, do thou kindly lay me low

With him I love, at rest!

ROBERT BURNS.

There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain;

'Tis heaven that whispers - dry thy tears, The pure in heaven shall meet again.