And then to lie and weep,

And think the livelong 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 wilt thou then, fond mother! In after years, look back, (Time brings such wondrous easing,)

With sadnesss 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,

"T was better to depart.

"God took thee in his mercy,

A lamb untasked, untried! He fought the field 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.

66

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 dewdrop 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."

ROKEBY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[EXTRACT.]

THE tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dewdrop on the rose ;

When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won by their care the orphan child
Soon on his new protector smiled,
With dimpled cheek, and eye so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair;
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;
'T was his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide;
His native lays, in Irish tongue,
To soothe her infant ear he sung,
And primrose twined with daisy fair,
To form a chaplet for her hair.

By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand-in-hand,
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.

MRS. HEMANS.

"OH! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone,

The summer comes with flower and bee,-
Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight——
Oh! call my brother back!

"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed

Around our garden-tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load-
Oh! call him back to me !"

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou 'lt see.

"A rose's brief, bright light of joy,

Such unto him was given ;—
Go! thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven."

"And has he left his birds and flowers?

And must I call in vain?

And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?-
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!"