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Till memory on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,

That thou art desolate !

And then to lie and weep,
And think the live-long night
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)

Of every past delight;

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,

His joy at sight of thee,

His tricks, his mimicry,—

And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling,

That mingle with the tears

And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond Mother!
In after years, look back,
(Time brings such wondrous easing)
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say 'My first-born blessing,
It almost broke my heart
When thou wert forced to go!

And yet, for thee, I know,

'Twas better to depart.

'God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb, untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified!

'I look around, and see

The evil ways of men; And, oh! Beloved child! I'm more than reconciled

To thy departure then.

"The little arms that clasped me,
The innocent lips that pressed,-
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore,

I lulled thee on my breast?

'Now, like a dew-drop shrined
Within a crystal stone,

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!
Safe with the Source of Love,
The Everlasting One.

'And when the hour arrives

From flesh that sets me free,

Thy spirit may await

The first at heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me.'

Blackwood's Magazine.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE GREEK OF JULIAN.

As a garland once I made,

In a bed of roses laid,

Love I found; with eager joy
By his wings I siezed the boy;
Crowning then an ample cup,
In a bumper drank him up.
Now along my veins he swims,

Fluttering, tickling through my limbs.

C.

TO HELEN.

I'VE whirled o'er leagues of plain and hill,
And like its gusts have swept the sea,
Yet one deep dream is on me still,

Sweet Helen, it is all of thee.

Back wings the heart, plain, hill, and tide, And loves, and lingers at thy side.

I see thee give the parting flower,
Whose very touch was like a spell;
And startle at its sudden power,

When deadly paleness on me fell;
And see thy guileless beauty bend
In blushing pity o'er thy friend.

My simple Helen! How that heart

Shall feel,-once conscious that it feels! What crimson to thy cheek shall dart When the first vision o'er it steals,

What tears shall weep Love's madness, folly, Thou child of Love and Melancholy.

I've seen it in that eye of blue,

Wild wandering over earth and sky,
I've seen it in that cheek's deep hue,
When some sublimer fantasy

Wrought in thee like an infant Muse ;-
But these were passion's tears and hues.

I've seen thee press the rose to lips

That might have given it richer red, And where the western sunbeam dips Its radiance, gaze till all was fled :Helen!-when once thy hour is nigh, Thy lot is bliss-or misery!

Who tells thee this? A silent one,

Who loved thee, as thou lov'dst the flower,

With passion to himself unknown,

And hovered round thee hour by hour,
And saw thee but a lovely child,
Nor woke till all his soul was wild.

Child as thou wert-yet didst thou ne'er
Think who he was that loved thee so?
Did thy heart never thrill, to hear

His tone, so strange, and sad, and low?
The glance so raised, so sunk again,—
Was not the fearful secret plain ?

Yet I have torn myself from thee!
This hour the surge is at my feet,
That bears me, ah!—how gloomily !—
Where thou and I shall never meet!
Aye, 'tis a fitting hour to tell

The heart's deep history.-Fare thee well!
Literary Gazette.

SONG.

'Twas sweet to look upon thine eyes,
As they looked answering to mine own;

"Twas sweet to listen to thy sighs,

And hear my name on every tone.

"Twas sweet to meet in yon lone glen

While smiles the heart's best sunshine shed;

'Twas sweet to part, and think again

The gentle things that each had said.

But all this sweetness was not worth
The tears that dimmed its after light!

Love is a sweet star at its birth,

But one that sets in deepest night.

L. E. L.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE SIGHT OF SOME LATE AUTUMN FLOWERS.

THOSE few pale autumn flowers,

How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,

Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why? They are the last!
The last the last! the last!

Oh! by that little word,

How many thoughts are stirred;
That sister of the past!

Pale flowers! Pale perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones,

(That time the fastest spends) Last tears in silence shed,

Last words half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends.

Who but would fain compress

A life into a day,

The last day spent with one

Who, e'er the morrow's sun,

Must leave us, and for aye?

Oh, precious, precious moments!
Pale flowers! ye're types of those;
The saddest! sweetest! dearest !

Because, like those, the nearest

To an eternal close.

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