DIRGE FOR AN INFANT.

He is dead and gone—a flower Born and withered in an hour. Coldly lies the death-frost now On his little rounded brow; And the seal of darkness lies Ever on his shrouded eyes. He will never feel again Touch of human joy or pain; Never will his once-bright eyes Open with a glad surprise; Nor the death-frost leave his brow— All is over with him now. Vacant now his cradle-bed, As a nest from whence hath fled Some dear little bird, whose wings Rest from timid flutterings. Thrown aside the childish rattle, Hushed for aye the infant prattle— Little broken words that could By none else be understood Save the childless one that weeps O'er the grave where now he sleeps. Closed his eyes, and cold his brow— All is over with him now! R. S. Chilton.