A TRUE INCIDENT.

UPON a summer's morn, a southern mother

Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn.

She rested from long travel, and with hand
Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness,

Look'd where the busy travellers went and came.
And, like the shadows of the swallows flying
Over the bosom of unruffled water,

Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there,

As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven

For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro,

A nurse walk'd singing with her babe in arms.

And many a passer-by look'd on the child

And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on

The old nurse troll'd her lullaby, and still,

Blest through her depths of soul by light there shining, mused on.

The mother in her revery

But lo! another traveller alighted!

And now, no more indifferent or calm,

The mother's breath comes quick, and with the blood Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low,

"Now, God be praised! I am no more alone.

In knowing I've an angel for my child,

Chance he to look on't only!" With a smile-
The tribute of a beauty-loving heart

To things from God new-moulded—would have pass'd
The poet, as the infant caught his eye;

But suddenly he turn'd, and with his hand
Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps,
And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child
In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed,
Something to waken wonder. Never sky
In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn—
Never the dew in new-born violet's cup,
Lay so entranced in purity! Not calm

With the mere hush of infancy at rest

The ample forehead, but serene with thought;
And, by the rapt expression of the lips,

They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn;
And over all its countenance there breathed
Benignity, majestic as we dream

Angels wear ever, before God. With gaze
Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm
With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child;
And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd
Close to an angel, went upon his way.

Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven

This cherub was recall'd, and now the mother

Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard-
(Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart
Familiar to the world,)-and wrote to tell him,
The angel he had recognised that morn
Had fled to bliss again. The poet well
Remember'd that child's ministry to him;

And of the only fountain that he knew
For healing, he sought comfort for the mother.
And thus he wrote:-

Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven,
Ere stain on its purity fell!

To thy questioning heart, lo! an answer from heaven :

IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?" "IT IS WELL!"

THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

THEY tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er— That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, Whispering to thee-and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven!

And what is thy far errand, my fair child?
Why away, wandering from a home of bliss,
To find thy way through darkness home again?
Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky?
Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert,
The cherub and the angel thou mayst be,
A life's probation in this sadder world?
Art thou, with memory of two things only,
Music and light, left upon earth astray,
And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven,
Look'd for with fear and trembling?

Bethought her, in her ar

(Herself a far-off strang Familiar to the world,)

The angel he had recog Had fled to bliss again. Remember'd that child' And of the only fountai For healing, he sought And thus he wrote:Mourn not for the child f Ere stain on its purity To thy questioning heart,

IS IT WELL WITH TH

T.