POETRY.

THE DYING MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

(A domestic sketch from real life.)

WEARY and silent on her couch she lay,

For life was wearing rapidly away:

Pale was her cheek, save where the hectic bloomThat mournful presage of an early tomb

Its brilliant color gave.

Her days, she knew,

Were numbered here; and from her earnest view
Earth's fairest scenes were fading; yet no sigh,
Nor tear, rose at the thought, but her dark eye
Was bright with hope and joy; grief could not shade
The sunshine of her spirit: she had made
The Lord her confidence, and He was near,
And from His servant banished every fear.

Her happy course through our rough world had been
Like the fair streamlet's, shining and serene;
Her sweet attractiveness won many a heart,
To choose, as she had done, the better part;
Love, purest love, had marked each word and deed
Her life was an epistle all might read.

And now when called from dearest friends to part,
Rich comfort from above sustained her heart;
With sweet composure she observed each sign
Which indicated life's increased decline;
By faith, she saw the mansions of the bless'd,
And longed to flee away, and be at rest.

As pale and languid on her couch she lay,

Too weak for converse with her friends that day ;—
She heard the accents of her infant child-

Those gentle accents which had oft beguiled
Her thoughts from care-sweeter than music's strain
Upon her ear they fell, and soothed her pain.

With all a mother's tenderness she drew
The little prattler to her side; the hue
Of health was on its cheek; bright was its eye
It looked up in her face so trustingly!

"Mamma is going home to heaven, my child,—
Oh, will you meet her there ?"—

The darling smiled,

And with unwonted energy, replied, "Yes, dear mamma!”

The loving mother tried

To answer, but emotion was too deep!
She could but bless her, and in silence weep.

Oh dying mother! did thy spirit grieve,
Thy little ones in this cold world to leave ?
No, thou didst trust them to thy Saviour's care—
Laid them within His arms and left them there-
On His sure covenant thy faith relied;

And Israel's God was chosen for their Guide.
Thy end was peace! thou art for ever bless'd!
Oh, may thy mantle on thy children rest

But, thou, sweet prattler-thou, the youngest born;
Fair as the flower which opens with the dawn
Thy widowed father's solace and delight;

A star which beamed on him through sorrow's night;
Thou hast fulfilled thy promise! thou hast met
Thy sainted mother. Nor can we regret
That thou hast left us, for her songs of love
Welcomed thy entrance to the home above!
Brief was thy separation; now 'tis o'er;
And death can sever her from thee no more!
Amidst the solemn cypress of the tomb,
The flowers of faith in rich luxuriance bloom.
Our loved ones sleep in Christ! sweeter their rest
Than infant slumbers on a mother's breast;
Calmly they closed their eyes on sin and strife
And wakened to a new and glorious life!
May their bright destiny our spirits cheer,
And strengthen us for toil and suffering here,

Attract us upwards, so that we may rise,
And follow in their footsteps to the skies!
God grant, when every earthly tie is riven
That all the family may meet in heaven

H. M. W.

OUR FATHERS-WHERE ARE THEY?

The earth is fair as 'twas of old,

When first the sun smiled on the scene;

The evening skies yet wear their gold,
The glade retains its living green;

All nature still is passing bright and gay:

What miss we then?" Our Fathers, where are they ?"

The moon rides nightly through the sky,

The forest shadows darkly fall,
The murmuring winds go rushing by,

Still roars the mighty waterfall.
The silver stars shine on in glad array,

And yet our lips enquire-" Our Fathers, where are they?"
The everlasting hills uprear

Their towering brows before the gale,

And the sweet blossoms of the year,

Fringe the blue streamlets of the vale.

The clouds float on through ether far away;

Yet is the question heard-" Our Fathers, where are they?"

Each in its turn the seasons come,

Obedient to their Maker's will;

And ocean's tidal billows foam,

Upon the pleasant sea-shore still;

And on them, as of yore, the sunbeams play,

And yet our sad hearts ask-" Our Fathers, where are they?"

Lift up the eye to heaven, for there
Within its radiant portals, dwell
Our fathers, freed from pain and care,
'Mid bliss and joy unutterable:

Yes, in the regions of eternal day,

Gathered to God's own band-our fathers there are they.

ANNIE WHITE.

VERSES ON THE RICHMOND NATIONAL INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND, IN IRELAND.

(By a Blind Man, see page 457.).

You from whose eyes the tender tear,
Can gently drop for human woe,
Oh! pour your soft compassion here,
And here your generous boon bestow.
Ah! you whom sympathy hast blest,
Whose hearts with pure devotion burn,
To you, of fortune's gifts possesst,
Those sightless orbs imploring turn.
For them the morning's rosy light,
In vain the glowing east o'erspreads;
For them the empress of the night,
In vain her silv'ry lustre sheds.
In vain the twilight shade descends,
In magic softness, pure, serene;
In vain the star of evening blends
Its dewy light to gild the scene.
O think what joys to you are giv'n,

Which they must never hope to share,
To view the bright expanse of heaven,
While sweet emotion speaks in prayer.
Be yours, with liberal hand, to prove
The feelings of a grateful mind,
Be yours, by acts of pious love,

To soothe the sorrows of the blind.

Be yours, to speak the Saviour's name,
To hearts that catch the joyful sound,
To kindle pure devotion's flame,
And shed immortal glory round.
Thus when the veil of darkness spread,
In all the gloom of endless night,—
"Let there be light," Jehovah said,
Creation heard, and all was light.