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Never to say farewell, -to weep in vain,-
Thou art gone home!
“ By the bright waters now thy lot is cast; Joy for thee, happy Friend !-thy bark hath past
The rough sea's foam. Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still’d; Home, home! thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd,
Thou art gone home !"
Fear not that, while around thee
Life's varied blessings pour,
Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
Let our past love remain ;
Shall haunt thy rest again.
May the new ties that bind thee
Far sweeter, happier prove ;
But by their truth and love.
image haunts me yet;
For thy own peace forget.
“ POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY."
J. R. PLANCHE.
The baron is feasting in lighted hall,
Time was when that baron was fain to ride,
The baron's broad mantle hath vair on its fold,
Time was when that baron was proud to wear
Baron and kinsman have sicken'd and died-
Into the same dark vault they thrust
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.
My baby! my poor little one! thou'st come a winter
flower ; A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour, Thou comest with the snow-drop, and, like that pretty
thing, The power that call’d my bud to life, will shield its
The snow-drop 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 snow-drop-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 snow-drop's safe !-- from her in
struction seek, For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and
Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name,
Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer
Be loving, dutiful to her ;-find favour in her sight; But never, oh, my child ! forget thine own poor mo
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
thereThat 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! Oh! 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
I do repent me, now too late, of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I
I've been too hasty, peevish, proud, I long'd to go away; And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me
Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might
have been, A bride last year,-and now to dieand I am scarce
nineteen, 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 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 beautifull and good as she is fair!
And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright
Oh no! not that 'tis full of thorns !-alas, I'm wan
dering 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
Thou’lt have thy father's eyes, my child--ohi once
how kind they were !