BESIDE her mother sat a darling child,

Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom

Had passed away: her large blue eyes, as mild

And soft-as lovely as the sky in June, Were fixed upon the morning star, so

soon,

Like her own life, to melt in glorious day; And as its pale beams trembled in the room,

Her heart throbbed wildly, for they seemed to say

In whispers, to her spirit, Come with us away!"

"Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head, And lay it gently on your own dear breast; Now kiss me, mother-let your smiles be shed

Upon my heart, for soon your child will rest,

Far from your care, with saints and angels blest:

Its mellow light before it dies, and sing-
I feel so well-the little hymn, the

same

You taught me, months ago, that e'er would bring

Our souls so near to heaven as on an unseen wing."

The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer, As rose the infant voice upon her ear: The note hung quivering on the balmy air,

Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear;

While round the child, dispelling every

fear,

Came floating visions from the land her dream

Had pictured to her happy soul so near; Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme

But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene.

land

Where spirits dwell; and like the golden

west

At sunset was the glory of the band I saw, And soon shall with them near the Saviour stand.

See, mother, that bright star is almost gone! It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain My aching heart would have it live-it shone

So sweetly on it that it hushed its pain, Come, lift me up, and let me see again

trembling strain

Was broken where the gushing melody Was softly lingering on the hallowed Name

Whose praises angels sound eternally. Quickly the mother sunk upon her knee, And from her snowy forehead threw the long

Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly: The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue

But she was dead!-her heart had broken with her song!

Christian Advocate and Journal.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth,

From which the life which fills and warms Its grateful being once had birth.

And thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame-if fame it be-
This heart, my own dear mother, bends
With love's true instinct back to thee.
MOORE.

THE wars for many a month were o'er Ere I could reach my native shed: My friends ne'er hoped to see me more, And wept for me as for the dead.

As I drew near, the cottage blazed,

The evening fire was clear and bright, As through the window long I gazed,

And saw each friend with dear delight.

My father in his corner sat,

My mother drew her useful thread;
My brothers strove to make them chat,
My sisters baked the household bread.
And Jean oft whispered to a friend,
And still let fall a silent tear;
But soon my Jessy's grief will end---
She little thinks her Harry's near.

What could I do? If in I went,
Surprise would chill each tender heart;
Some story, then, I must invent,

And act the poor maimed soldier's part.

I drew a bandage o'er my face,

And crooked up a lying knee; And soon I found, in that best place, Not one dear friend knew aught of me.

I ventured in;-Tray wagged his tail,

My mother saw her catching sigh,

And hid her face behind the rock, While tears swam round in every eye, And not a single word was spoke.

66 'He lives indeed! this kerchief see, At parting his dear Jessy gave; He sent it far, with love, by me,

To show he still escapes the grave." An arrow darting from a bow

Could not more quick the token reach; The patch from off my face I drew,

And gave my voice its well-known speech.

"My Jessy dear!" I softly said,

She gazed and answered with a sigh;
My sisters looked, as half afraid;
My mother fainted quite for joy.

My father danced around his son;
My brothers shook my hand away;
My mother said "her glass might run,
She cared not now how soon the day!"
MISS BLAMIRE.

"Father! I'm going home!

To the good home you speak of, that blest land

I must be happy then:

From pain and death you say I shall be free

That sickness never enters there, and we Shall meet again!"

"Brother! the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours

pale,

Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air Came through the open window, freighted

with

The savoury odours of the early springHe breathed it not! The laugh of passers

by

Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, But marred not his slumbers-He was dead! ANON.

DEAD on the battle field
Lies one in silence sealed,
Grasping his lance and shield
Tightly around:

True to his lord and trust,
Crouched in the gory dust,
Licking the armour rust,

See the brave hound. Vultures, with instinct rare, Sail through the tainted air, Shrieking with lust, to tear

Open the wound:

Still a safe watch he keeps,
E'en while his spirit weeps-
Guarding the slaughtered heaps,
Stands the bold hound.
When thrice the moonbeams rise,
Glazed are his loving eyes;
Down, down he sinks, and dies,

Prone on the ground.

Eager for reeking food,
Swoop down the cursed brood,
Rending with talons rude,

Master and hound.

ANON.

THE stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths, by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath the eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared, To guard each hallowed wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! MRS. HEMANS.

THY neighbour? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless;
Whose aching heart and burning brow

Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour? "Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim;
Whom hunger sends from door to door;-
Go thou and succour him.

Thy neighbour? "Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain;-
Go thou and succour him.
Thy neighbour? "Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan, helpless left;-
Go thou and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave; →→
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,

Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;-
Go share thy lot with him.

ANON.

WHAT can a mother's heart repay,
In after years,
For watchful night and weary day
Beside the cradle passed away,
And anxious tears?-

To see her dear one tread the earth
In life and health, and childish mirth.

What can a mother's heart repay

For later care,-

For counsel against passion's sway,
And earnest prayer?-
To watch her little pilgrims press
Along the road to holiness.
This will a mother's heart repay,
If that loved band,

Amidst life's doubtful battle-fray,
By grace sustained, shall often say,
Next to God's hand,

way,

Mother, to thy dear self we owe."
REV. W. CALVERT

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eye
Among the scattered rocks:

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear-
What is the creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below;

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere :

Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud
And mists that spread the flying shroud,
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That if it could would hurry past--
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground!
The appalled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen-that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed that way.

But here a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell;-

A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well:

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been, through three months' space,

A dweller in that savage place!

Yes, proof was plain that since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourished there through that long time
He knows who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling great,
Above all human estimate.