With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
While soaring to the skies,

'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise,
As to her nest;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :

66

Follow, follow me away,

It boots not to delay,"

'Twas so she seem'd to saye,
"HERE IS REST."

RESIGNATION.

(Written on the death of an infant daughter.)
By LONGFELLOW.

THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachael, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted.

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions.

Not from the ground arise;

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;
Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,

May be Heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so in transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb to the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead-the child of our affection-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

i

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, but tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child:

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion,
And anguish long suppress'd,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

There is many a mother among our readers, and there is not one of them whose heart will not respond to the beautiful lines of our most gifted poetess, Mrs. NORTON, on her three children.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy and fond,

My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,

My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;

Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that lean'd to Heav'n;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Obedient-easy to be reconciled-

And meekly-cheerful—such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ;

Norl eaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying,

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fade,-

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee,

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Did come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ;

Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

And thine was many a heart to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;

The coaxing smile ;--the frequent soft caress;

The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length thou camest; thou, the last and least;

Nick-named "The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile :

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!
An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders-curling lip--and dauntless brow--
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call-
But in the mother's heart found room for all!

TO-DAY.

By THOMAS CARLYLE.

Lo, here hath been dawning
Another blue day:

Think, wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.

Out of Eternity
This new day is born;
Into eternity,

At night, will return.

Behold it aforetime

No eye ever did;
So soon it for ever
From all eyes is hid:

Here hath been dawning

Another blue day:

Think, wilt thou let it

Slip useless away.

TO THE SKYLARK.

This pretty and original production appeared in Tait's Magazine.

WE call thee bird of ethereal wing,-
Morning songster,-musical thing,-
Melody's child,-bright bird of fame,-
Sky-lark, and many a pretty name.

By what do spirits of upper air
Address thee when thou singest there?
Have they a name more sweet than ours,
To win thee from these earthly bowers?

Or what the appellation given,
Thy spirit-self in fields of Heaven?
I'd know it now, that, ere I go,

I

may speak it, Lark, I love thee so!

THE MARTYR.

This very sweet poem is taken from a novel called Singleton Fontenoy, the author of which is, we believe, an American.

Ir was the early morning
When first she met my view;
What time with heavy rain-drops,
Sparkled the spear-like yew:
It was the fall of summer

When she used to pass by me;
What time the year was weaning
The fruit from the mother-tree.

Ever in early morning,

Glided she forth alone;
Cold and silent she seem'd,

As a lily carved in stone;

Ever, in early morning

Forth the maiden goes,

With water, cold as her glances,

To water a lonely rose.