Till memory on thy soul That thou art desolate ! And then to lie and weep, Of every past delight; Of all his winning ways, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimicry,— And all his little wiles! Oh! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling, That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, But thou wilt then, fond Mother! E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say 'My first-born blessing, And yet, for thee, I know, 'Twas better to depart. 'God took thee in his mercy, And thou art sanctified! 'I look around, and see The evil ways of men; And, oh! Beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. "The little arms that clasped me, I lulled thee on my breast? 'Now, like a dew-drop shrined Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! 'And when the hour arrives From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me.' Blackwood's Magazine. EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK OF JULIAN. As a garland once I made, In a bed of roses laid, Love I found; with eager joy Fluttering, tickling through my limbs. C. TO HELEN. I'VE whirled o'er leagues of plain and hill, Sweet Helen, it is all of thee. Back wings the heart, plain, hill, and tide, And loves, and lingers at thy side. I see thee give the parting flower, When deadly paleness on me fell; My simple Helen! How that heart Shall feel,-once conscious that it feels! What crimson to thy cheek shall dart When the first vision o'er it steals, What tears shall weep Love's madness, folly, Thou child of Love and Melancholy. I've seen it in that eye of blue, Wild wandering over earth and sky, Wrought in thee like an infant Muse ;- I've seen thee press the rose to lips That might have given it richer red, And where the western sunbeam dips Its radiance, gaze till all was fled :Helen!-when once thy hour is nigh, Thy lot is bliss-or misery! Who tells thee this? A silent one, Who loved thee, as thou lov'dst the flower, With passion to himself unknown, And hovered round thee hour by hour, Child as thou wert-yet didst thou ne'er His tone, so strange, and sad, and low? Yet I have torn myself from thee! The heart's deep history.-Fare thee well! SONG. 'Twas sweet to look upon thine eyes, "Twas sweet to listen to thy sighs, And hear my name on every tone. "Twas sweet to meet in yon lone glen While smiles the heart's best sunshine shed; 'Twas sweet to part, and think again The gentle things that each had said. But all this sweetness was not worth Love is a sweet star at its birth, But one that sets in deepest night. L. E. L. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SIGHT OF SOME LATE AUTUMN FLOWERS. THOSE few pale autumn flowers, How beautiful they are! Than all the summer store, And why? They are the last! Oh! by that little word, How many thoughts are stirred; Pale flowers! Pale perishing flowers! Last hours with parting dear ones, (That time the fastest spends) Last tears in silence shed, Last words half uttered, Last looks of dying friends. Who but would fain compress A life into a day, The last day spent with one Who, e'er the morrow's sun, Must leave us, and for aye? Oh, precious, precious moments! Because, like those, the nearest To an eternal close. |