There, my mother, pleasures centre;

Weeping, parting, care, or woe Ne'er our father's house can enterMorn advances—let me go.

As through this calm and holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath
To an everlasting morning—
Gently close my eyes on death.

Blessings, endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
Though no language yet possessing
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing grieves me,
Though again his voice I hear-
Rise!-may every grace attend thee,
Rise! and seek to meet me there!

SORROW.

HE that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure

For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. Where sorrow's held intrusive, and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

HENRY TAYLOR.

PASSING UNDER THE ROD.

I SAW the young mother in tenderness bend
O'er the couch of her slumbering boy;

And she kissed the soft lips as they murmured her

name,

While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.
Oh sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air!

So fresh and so bright to the mother he seemed,
As he lay in his innocence there.

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent and cold,

But paler and colder the beautiful boy,

And the tale of her sorrow was told.

But the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart,

And taken her treasure away:

To allure her to heaven, He has placed it on high And the mourner will sweetly obey;

There had whispered a voice-'t was the voice of her God

“I love thee—I love thee-pass under the rod."

MRS. DANA.

"T WAS BUT A BABE.

I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven
From its young rooting; and with silent lip
They pointed to a new-made chasm among
The marble-pillared mansions of the dead.
Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch?
The tearless crowd pass on- "'t was but a babe."
A babe! And poise ye in the rigid scales

Of calculation the fond bosom's wealth?

Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh

Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt,
Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief

Perchance when youth, maturity, or age

Sink in the thronging tomb; but when the breath Grows icy on the lip of innocence,

Repress your measured sympathies, and say, "'Twas but a babe!"

What know ye of her love,

Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim,
Over her drooping infant, with an eye
Bright as unchanging hope of his repose ?
What know ye of her woe, who sought no joy
More exquisite than on his placid brow
To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn
The thrilling lustre of his waking smile?

Go ask that musing father, why yon grave,
So narrow and so noteless, might not close
Without a tear?

And though his lips be mute,

Feeling the poverty of speech, to give

Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow,
And the deep agonizing prayer that loads
Midnight, dark'ning to him the God of strength,
May satisfy the question.

Ye who mourn

Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes

That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide

Of alienated joy, can ye not trust

Your treasure to his arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope, When a few wasting years their course have run,

To go to him, though he no more on earth

Returns to you?

And when glad Faith doth catch

Some echo of celestial harmonies,

Archangel's praises, with the high response

Of cherubim and seraphim, oh, think

Your babe is there!

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

As the sweet flower that scents the morn,
But withers in the rising day;
Thus lovely was this infant's dawn,
Thus swiftly fled its life away.

It died ere its expanding soul

Had ever burnt with wrong desires,
Had ever spurned at heaven's control
Or ever quenched its sacred fires.

It died to sin-it died to cares,
But for a moment felt the rod.
Oh mourner! such the Lord declares,
Such are the children of our God.