WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

Boy tired! the drooping infant said, And meekly laid his noble head, Down on that shielding breast, Which mid all change of grief, or wo, Had been his Paradise below, His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love, That sleepless toiled and watched and strove, For dire disease portends. Alas for Science and its skill Opposed to his unpitying will This mortal span that rends.

Boy tired! So thou hast past away, From heat and burden of the day, From snares that manhood knows,— From want and wo and deadly strife, From wrong, and weariness of life, Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! Those words of parting pain Thou never more wilt breathe again, Nor lift the moaning cry, For naught to wound or vex, or cloy, Invades the cherub home of joy, No shade obscures the sky.

O, mother! When above ye meet, When all these years, so few and fleet, Fade like a mist away, This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed, Shall seem but as an April cloud, Before the noon-tide ray.