THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child-
To turn to, from less loving looks, from faces not so mild :
Alas! unconscious little one! thou'lt never know that best,
That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast.

I do repent me now too late, of each impatient thought,
That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought;
I've been too hasty, peevish, proud-I long'd to go away-
And, now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay.

Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-oh! once how kind they were !

His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair: But here's a mark-poor innocent-he'll love thee for 't the less, Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to press.

And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all's forgot
But our young loves, in memory's mind-he'll kiss this very spot;
Oh, then, my dearest! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast,t
And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last.

I've heard that little infants converse by smile and sign
With the guardian band of angels that round about them shine,
Unseen by grosser senses-Beloved one! dost thou

Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now?

Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might have been-
A bride last year-and now to die; and I am scarce nineteen-
And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love so new,
So deep could that have run to waste? could that have fail'd me too?

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side,
My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride;
To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and rare-
To hear it said, "How beautiful! and good as she is fair!"

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright young brow; Oh no! not that 'tis full of thorns: alas! I'm wandering now: This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last

I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past.

And hast thou not one look for me? those little restless eyes
Are wandering, wandering everywhere, the while thy mother dies:
And yet, perhaps, thou'rt seeking me-expecting me, mine own!
Come, Death, and make me to my child at least in spirit known.
Caroline Bowles.

SONG.

THE stars are with the voyager,
Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time,
The sun will never fail,

But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light,
The moon will veil her in the shade,
The sun will set at night;

The sun may set, but constant love

Will shine when he's away;

So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.

Thomas Hood.

A SOFTENING thought of other years,
A feeling link'd to hours

When Life was all too bright for tears,

And Hope sang, wreath'd with flowers!

A memory of affections fled

Of voices-heard no more!

Stirred in my spirit when I read

That name of fondness o'er!

THE MOTHER.

Oh Mother!-in that early word
What loves and joys combine;
What hopes-too oft, alas !-deferr'd ;
What vigils-griefs-are thine !—
Yet, never, till the hour we roam,
By worldly thralls opprest,
Learn we to prize that truest home-

A watchful mother's breast!

The thousand prayers at midnight pour'd, Beside our couch of woes ;

The wasting weariness endured

To soften our repose!—

Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue

Nor toils relax'd thy care :—

How, Mother, is thy heart so strong
To pity and forbear?

What filial fondness e'er repaid,
Or could repay, the past?—
Alas! for gratitude decay'd!
Regrets-that rarely last!-

'Tis only when the dust is thrown
Thy lifeless bosom o'er,

We muse upon thy kindness shown-
And wish we'd loved thee more!

'Tis only when thy lips are cold,
We mourn with late regret,
'Mid myriad memories of old,

The days for ever set!

And not an act-nor look-nor thought

Against thy meek control,

But with a sad remembrance fraught

Wakes anguish in the soul!

THE MOTHER.

On every land-in every clime-
True to her sacred cause,
Fill'd by that effluence sublime

From which her strength she draws,

Still is the Mother's heart the same

The Mother's lot as tried :

Then, oh may Nations guard that name

With filial power and pride!

MARY, SINCE FIRST I KNEW THEE.

Charles Swain.

MARY, since first I knew thee, to this hour,
My love hath deepened, with my wiser sense
Of what in woman is to reverence;

Thy clear heart, fresh as e'er was forest-flower,
Still opens more to me its beauteous dower ;-
But let praise hush,- Love asks no evidence
To prove itself well-placed; we know not whence
It gleans the straws that thatch its humble bower :
We can but say we found it in the heart,
Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of blame,
Sower of flowers in the dusty mart,

Pure vestal of the poet's holy flame,

This is enough, and we have done our part
If we but keep it spotless as it came.

J. R. Lowell.