THE DEPARTED ONE.

Mais elle était du monde où les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin;

Et rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
L'espace d'un matin.

[But she was of a world where things most fair
Have saddest doom;

And rose, receiv'd of life the rose's share,

A morning's bloom.]

MALHERBE.

Mourn not her whose gentle spirit

Quits its prison house of clay,
Heavenly mansions to inherit.

CHARLES CROCKER.

THEY told me thou wast gone from us-I heard it with a sigh,

A tear-drop trembled on the lid, yet, ere it fell, 'twas

dry;

I could not, could not grieve to think that one so

pure had flown

To seek a holier resting-place, before her Maker's

throne.

"Twas yesterday, and thou wast glad, as a young bird whose wing

First bears him through Heaven's broad expanse to taste the breath of Spring;

It is to-day, and thou art gone, and all thy youth is fled,

But yet I cannot, cannot grieve to think that thou art dead.

Thy spirit could not linger here, earth was no place

for thee,

Thy bosom yearned for the joys of immortality ; Heav'n sent its messenger of bliss, and summon'd thee above,

To realms where peace holds equal reign with holiness and love.

There is no terror in that dream, and in that rest no

sadness,

From which th' unfetter'd soul shall wake to thoughts

of heavenly gladness;

No gloom-when on the wings of faith a spirit takes

its flight;

No darkness-when a beam from Heav'n illumineth

the night.

Farewell! thou beauteous child of earth, a fond, a last farewell!

With feelings of deep awe and strange I heard thy fun'ral knell ;

But I thought on all thy holiness, and grief was not

for me

Thy image dwelleth on my soul—may I resemble

thee!

TO MY MOTHER.

She led me first to God:

Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.

JOHN PIERPOINT.-American Poets, p. 52.

If there be one, all other ties above,

Deep, fond, enduring, 'tis a Mother's love.
Hope may deceive us with prismatic hue,
And the world's kindness prove, like it, untrue;
But the pure instinct of a Mother's love,

Fed with perennial flame from realms above,
Burns brightly on, and cheers, with genial ray,
The pilgrim fainting on life's rugged way ;
Like rainbow beauty, soothing 'mid the storm,
Its lustre falls on misery's saddest form.

Go to the dungeon where the captive sleeps,
Or wakes in hours of penitence, and weeps,-
What angel voice is whisp'ring comfort there,
To calm the maniac frenzy of despair?
There is but one, in this dark hour of woe,
To soothe his bosom's agonizing throe,

With gentler thoughts his grief-worn heart to fill,
Mourn his unholy deeds, and love him still:
It is a Mother-see her bending there!

Mark her soul's anguish, hear her spirit's prayer!
The quivering lip and sunken cheek but tell
Her only fault is loving him too well;

There speaks affection's voice, in accents wild,
"Father in Heav'n, forgive my erring child!"

What endless thanks are due to bounteous Heaven,
To man's all-wise Creator, who has given
This careful guardian to instruct his youth,
To kindle in his soul the fire of truth,
To guide the op'ning reason of his mind,
Firm in directing, in reproving kind!

E