And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Donati lived; and long might you have seen Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever! The Dying Mother to her Infant. 131 The Lily of the Valley. BY THE REV. G. CROLY. WHITE bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean, WHIT The cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow, Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, An eremite beneath his mountain's brow. White bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier thing- To silent shades, and there sits offering To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears. The Dying Mother to her Infant. BY CAROLINE BOWLES. MY baby! my poor little one! thou'st come a winter flower A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour; The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and warm, Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm; I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long; but well I know The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go. The snowdrop-how it haunts me still!-hangs down her fair young head, So thine may droop in days to come when I have long been dead; And yet the little snowdrop's safe ;-from her instruction seek; For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and the meek? Yet motherless thou 'lt not be long-not long in name, my life! Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife; But who will speak to thee of her?-the gravestone at her head Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the dead; But not a word of all the love, the mighty love for thee, That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. They'll put my picture from its place to fix another there— That picture that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair. Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thine own Oh take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone! To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my childTo turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas, unconscious little one! thou 'lt never know the best, That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast! I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought; I've been too hasty, peevish, proud-I long'd to go away: And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay. The Dying Mother to her Infant. 133 Thou 'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-Oh once how kind they were! His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair ; But here's a mark, poor innocent!-he 'll love thee for 't the less, Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to press. And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps when all's forgot But our young loves, in memory's mood, he'll kiss this very spot. Oh, then, my dearest! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast, And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last! I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs, With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines, Unseen by grosser senses,-beloved one! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now? Oh, when I think of what I was, and what I might have beenA bride last year--and now to die! and I am scarce nine teen ; And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love, so new, So deep!—could that have run to waste?—could that have fail'd me too? The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side; My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride; To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and rare; To hear it said, "How beautiful! and good as she is fair." And then to place the marriage-crown upon that bright young brow ; Oh no! not that 'tis full of thorns ;-alas! I'm wandering now. This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last; I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. And hast thou not one look for me?-those little restless eyes Are wandering, wandering everywhere, the while thy mother dies; And yet, perhaps, thou 'rt seeking me-expecting me, mine own! Come, death, and make me to my child at least in spirits known! On a Very Old Wedding Ring. By G. W. DOANE. The device-two hearts united. The motto "Dear love of mine, my heart is thine." I LIKE that ring, that ancient ring Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy, I like it, for it wafts me back, The men and days of deeds sublime. |