MUSINGS OF CONVALESCENCE.

AFTER seclusion sad, and sad restraint,
Again the welcome breeze comes wafted far
Across the cooling bosom of the lake,

To fan my weary limbs and feverish brow,
Where yet the pulse beats audible and quick-
And I could number every passing throb,
Without the pressure which physicians use,
As easily as I could count the chimes

By which the clock sums up the flight of time.
Yet it is pleasing, from the bed of sickness,
And from the dingy cottage, to escape

For a short time to breathe the breath of heaven,

And ruminate abroad with less of pain.

Let those who never pressed the thorny pillow,

To which disease oft ties its victim down

For days and weeks of wakeful suffering—

Who never knew to turn or be turned
From side to side, and seek, and seek, in vain,
For ease and a short season of repose--
Who never tried to circumvent a moan,
And tame the spirit with a tyrant's sway,

To bear what must be borne and not complain-
Who never strove to wring from the writhed lip
And rigid brow, the semblance of a smile,
To cheer a friend in sorrow sitting by,
Nor felt that time, in happy days so fleet,

Drags heavily along when dogged by pain.
Let those talk well of Nature's beauteous face,

And her sublimer scenes; her rocks and mountains;
Her clustered hills and winding valleys deep;

Her lakes, her rivers, and her oceans vast,

In all the pomp of modern sentiment;

But still they cannot feel with half the force,
Which the pale invalid, imprisoned long,
Experiences upon his first escape

To the green fields and the wide world abroad:
Beauty is beauty-freshness, freshness, then;
And feeling is a something to be felt-

Not fancied as is frequently the case.

These feelings lend an impulse now, and Hope
Again would soar upon the wings of health:
Yet is it early to indulge his flight,

When death, short while ago seemed hovering near;
And the next hour perhaps may bring him back,
And bring me to that 'bourne' where I shall sleep-
Not like the traveller, though he sleep well,

Not like the artisan, or humble hind,

Or the day-laborer worn out with his toil,

Who pass the night, scarce conscious of its passing,

Till morning with his balmy breath return.

And the shrill cock-crow warns them from their bedThat sleep shall be more lasting and more dreamless, Than aught which living men on earth may know.

Well, be it so methinks my life, though short, Hath taught me that this sublunary world Is something else than Fancy wont to paint itA world of many cares and anxious thoughts, Pains, sufferings, abstinence, and endless toil, From which it were small penance to be gone. Yet there are feelings in the heart of youth, Howe'er depressed by poverty or pain,

Which loathe the oblivious grave; and I would live, If it were only but to be convinced

That 'all is vanity beneath the sun.'—

Yes while these hands can earn what nature asks,

Or lessen, by one bitter drop, the cup

Of woe, which some must drink even to its dregs,

Or have it in their power to hold a crust

To the pale lip of famished Indigence,

I would not murmur or repine though care,
The toil-worn, frame-tired arm, and heavy foot,
Should be my portion in this pilgrimage.
But when this ceases let me also cease,
If such may be thy will, O God of heaven!
Thou knowest all the weakness of my heart,
And it is such, I would not be a beggar
Nor ask an alms from Charity's cold hand:
I would not buy existence at the price
Which the poor mendicant must stoop to pay.

UNLIKE all other things earth knows,
(All else may fail or change,)

The love in a Mother's heart that glows,
Nought earthly can estrange.
Concentrated and strong, and bright,
A vestal flame it glows

With pure, self-sacrificing light,
Which no cold shadow knows.
All that by mortal can be done,

A Mother ventures for her son:

If marked by worth or merit high,

Her bosom beats with ecstasy;

And though he own nor worth nor charm,

To him her faithful heart is warm.

Though wayward passions round him close,
And fame and fortune prove his foes;
Through every change of good and ill,
Unchanged, a mother loves him still.
Even love itself, than life more dear,-
Its interchange of hope and fear;

Its feeling oft a-kin to madness;
Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness;
Its melting moods of tenderness,
And fancied wrongs, and fond redress,
Hath nought to form so strong a tie
As her deep sympathies supply.

And when those kindred chords are broken

Which twine around the heart;

When friends their farewell word have spoken, And to the grave depart;

When parents, brothers, husband, die,

And desolation only

At every step meets her dim eye,

Inspiring visions lonely,—

Love's last and strongest root below,
Which widowed mothers only know,
Watered by each successive grief,
Puts forth a fresher, greener leaf:
Divided streams unite in one,
And deepen round her only son;
And when her early friends are gone,
She lives and breathes in him alone."