'Tis past! 't is past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Eliza Cook.

CHILDHOOD.

THE hour arrives, the moment wished and feared, The child is born, by many a pang endeared; And now the mother's ear has caught his cry,

Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!

He comes. She clasps him. To her bosom pressed, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.

Her, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows,
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard;
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung-
That name most dear for ever on his tongue-
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings;
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ;
Watch o'er his slumbers, like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a Mother's Love!

But soon, a nobler task demands her care,
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer;
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!

And now the volume on her knee has caught

His wandering eye. Now many a written thought

Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,

His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.

CHILDHOOD.

Released, he chases the bright butterfly-
Oh he would follow, follow through the sky!
Climbs the gauut mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane.
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain's side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or if now he can,

If now he wear the habit of a man,

Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,

His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
Ah, who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day?
Now is the May of Life careering round,

Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground;
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,

"These are my jewels!" well of such as he
When Jesus spake, well might His language be,
"Suffer these little ones to come to me."

Samuel Rogers.

CHURCH BELLS.

"WAKE me to-night, my mother dear, That I may hear

The Christmas Bells, so soft and clear,

To high and low glad tidings tell,
How God the Father loved us well,

How God the Eternal Son

Came to undo what we had done,

How God the Paraclete,

Who in the chaste womb framed the Babe so sweet, In power and glory came, the birth to aid and greet.

"Wake me, that I the twelvemonth long

May bear the song

About with me in the world's throng;

That treasured joys of Christmas tide,

May with mine hour of gloom abide;

The Christmas carol ring

Deep in my heart, when I would sing;
Each of the twelve good days

Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise,

Ensuring happy months, and hallowing common ways.

"Wake me again, my mother dear,

That I may hear

The peal of the departing year.

O well I love, the step of Time

Should move to that familiar chime;

Fair fall the tones that steep
The Old Year in the dews of sleep,

The New guide softly in

With hopes to sweet sad memories akin!

Long may that soothing cadence ear, heart, conscience win."