Never to say farewell, -to weep in vain,-
To read of change in eyes beloved again ;

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 !"

SONG.

MOORE.

Fear not that, while around thee

Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of her shall wound thee

Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No! dead and cold for ever,

Let our past love remain ;
Once gone, its spirit never

Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee

Far sweeter, happier prove ;
Nor e'er of me remind thee,

But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,

image haunts me yet;
But how this heart is breaking,

For thy own peace forget.

“ POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY."

J. R. PLANCHE.

The baron is feasting in lighted hall,
And forty good yeomen will mount at his call ;
His kinsman is left in the cold porch to sigh
O“ Poverty parts good company!”.

Time was when that baron was fain to ride,
And carry the hawk by his kinsman's side ;
But fortune can faster than falcon fly,
And “Poverty parts good company.”

The baron's broad mantle hath vair on its fold,
His hose are of velvet, his hood is of gold ;
His kinsman, in russet, creeps shivering by,
For “Poverty parts good company."

Time was when that baron was proud to wear
The broider'd badge of his kinsman fair ;
But fortune is fickle, and time hath gone by,
And Poverty parts good company."

Baron and kinsman have sicken'd and died-
'Scutcheon'd and plum'd is the hearse of pride ;
But a coffin of the plain elm tree
Must keep that proud hearse company!

Into the same dark vault they thrust
The rich man's clay and the poor man's dust;
Side by side again they lie :
In the grave we are all of a company.

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

MISS BOWLES.

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

blossoming.

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

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 ;

Be loving, dutiful to her ;-find favour in her sight; But never, oh, my child ! forget thine own poor mo

ther quite.

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

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 away; And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me

stay.

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 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 beautifull 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 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

past.

Thou’lt have thy father's eyes, my child--ohi once

how kind they were !