O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last,
Those lips are thine,thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss -
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such? It was. - Where thou art

gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,-
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a history little known
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced:
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, -
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed
here.

I would not trust my heart, the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no,
what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou- as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore

REVENGE OF INJURIES.

THE fairest action of our human life

Is scorning to revenge an injury:
For who forgives without a further strife
His adversary's heart to him doth tie :
And 't is a firmer conquest truly said
To win the heart than overthrow the head.
If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth, it must be nobly done;
But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield, it proves them Great hearts are tasked beyond their power but

poor:

seld:

The weakest lion will the loudest roar.

Truth's school for certain does this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW.

FAITH.

Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer stand; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after days!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

PRUNE thou thy words; the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;
They will condense within thy soul,
And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run

In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour, and fade.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

THE DOORSTEP.

THE Conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited,
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,

Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed, and took my arm ! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

"T was nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.