The boatman beckons―go in peace! And with His blessings crown your life. THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. By CAROLINE Bowles. My baby! my poor little one: thou'rt come a winter flower, A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour: Thou comest with the snowdrop, and, like that pretty thing, The power that call'd my bud to life will shield its blossoming. The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and warm, Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm; I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long-but well I know, The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go. The snowdrop-how it haunts me still-hangs down her fair young head; So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead; And yet the little snowdrop's safe! from her instruction seek, For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek. Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name, my life! Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife: But who will speak to thee of her? the gravestone at her head Will only tell the name, and age, and lineage of the dead! But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for thee— That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there— That picture that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair; Some chamber in thy father's house, they'll let thee call thine own O! take it there, to look upon when thou art all alone! 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 awayAnd, 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 this neck full fast, And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last. I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines, 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 nine teen 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!" 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. AN ENIGMA. One of the clever jeux-d'esprit of W. M. PRAED, containing poetry and wit. LORD RONALD by the rich torchlight Feasted his vassals tall; And he broach'd my first, that jovial knight, Within his banner'd hall: The red stream went from wood to can, And then from can to mouth, And the deuce a man knew how it ran, "Let the health go wide," Lord Ronald cried, "One health to-night to the noblest bride, Lord Ronald kneel'd, when the morning came, Low in his mistress' bower; And she gave him my second, that beauteous dame, Her silver shears were not at hand; And grew not pale the while: "And ride, and ride," Lord Ronald cried, "For he that woos the noblest Bride Must beard the stoutest Foe!" Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair, And mark'd how my whole was crumbling there The bastion and the battlement On many a craven crown, Like rocks from some huge mountain rent, "Whate'er betide," Lord Ronald cried, As he bade his trumpets blow, “I shall win to-night the noblest Bride, A SLEEPING NYMPH. We have not yet resorted to the works of that great master of the English language-DRYDEN. He is fallen into strange neglect -few read him. His volumes gather dust upon the book shelf, and few are aware what a mine of poetical wealth is hid beneath it. Our readers may form some notion of his descriptive powers, and the fine racy composition of sterling English in which his poems are written, by the following exquisite picture :— By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd, The dame herself the goddess well express'd, The fanning wind upon her bosom blows; To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose; The fanning wind and purling streams continue her repose. THE LAST WISH. The celebrated WILSON, the ornithologist, requested that he might be buried near some sunny spot where the birds he loved so in his life might come and sing over his grave. This has been adopted as a text by an anonymous American writer, and improved in the following beautiful lines. In some wild forest shade, Under some spreading oak, or waving pine, |