Safe they rest the green turf under ;

Sighing breeze, or music's breath,

Winter's wind, or summer's thunder,

Cannot break the sleep of death!

TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

My mother! now the gladsome spring

Is smiling o'er the earth;

And butterflies on painted wing,

In sunny light go forth.

Though all spring days most lovely be,

All fair and full of mirth,

One, one is dearest far to me,

The day that gave thee birth;

It was a day with joyance fraught,-
It is a day for deepened thought.

My mother! I remember well,

When thou wast not as now;

Remember when Time's shadow fell

Less darkly on thy brow.

F

I can remind me of the time,

When in life's summer glow,

Thy years had hardly passed their prime, And scarce one flower lay low;

But clouds thy heaven have overcast,

Since those bright days of pleasure past.

Mother! thy step is not so firm

As it was wont to be,

For secret blight and open storm
Have done their work on thee;

Thy hair turns grey, and I can see

Thy hand more tremulous,

And thy dark eye hath lost its glee,

Save when it turns on us,

Thy children-then it hath a joy

And light, that nothing can destroy.

Yet weep not, mother! for the days
Passed by, we'll not regret;

The star of Hope, with all its rays,

Is only dimmed, not set.

Fixed o'er thy path it shall remain,

And never more deceive,

And it shall sparkle out again,

To light thy quiet eve;

Flinging a radiance o'er past years,
And brightening all thy fallen tears.

Mother! perhaps the poet's wreath,
May ne'er be twined for me;
Perhaps I was not made to breathe

In lofty poesy ;—

Yet still I know thy tender love

Will think it melody;

Thy partial ear will still approve,

However weak it be;

And thou wilt love the words that start,

Thus from the fulness of the heart.

TRUST IN HEAVEN.

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's delusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but heaven!

MOORE.

TRUST in heaven !-when o'er thy path

Clouds and tempests come in wrath;

When thy grief oppresseth thee,

When obscured thy prospects be,

When around the mists are driven,

Heed them not, but trust in heaven!

}

Trust in heaven!-when morning lifts

Up her head, and casts her gifts,