"I feel the cold sweat stand:

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me is this death? Mother your hand ;

"Here, lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus beneath my head;

And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead
Shall I be missed?

"Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake and sing the lay
You taught to me.

"Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet,
You'll miss me there.

"Father, I'm going home!—

To the good home you spoke of; that blest land Where it is one bright summer always, and

Storms do not come.

"I must be happy then ;

From pain and death you say I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we

Shall meet again.

"Brother-the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours We've staid to watch the budding things and

flowers,

Forget it not!

"Plant there some box or pine; Something that lives in winter, and will be

A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine!

"Sister, my young rose-tree,

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.

"And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away, my short life done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?

"Now, mother, sing the tune

You

sang last night; I'm weary

and must sleep.

Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep,

You'll all come soon."

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,

X

Until, with sobe convulsively represt,
He folds me closely to his beating breast;

Then, in a tone subdued, he prays
For blessings on my head ;-
Then starting suddenly, he says,

"Thou art so like the dead!

Forgive, my darling child, this weak despair,
But oh! thy presence yet I cannot bear!”

Crushed, like a flower to earth I sink,
Or silent steal away;

I even from my sisters shrink

And brothers at their play;—

They too are kind, or so they fain would be,
But then they say, I must not weep for thee.

They tell me that I must submit,—

That God's unfailing love,

To bring me to himself, sees fit

My young heart thus to prove,

Oh! I submit, and only pray to be

Soon, soon, my mother! in God's heaven with thee.

SONNET.

"She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new moon she saw not,—but in peace
Hung over her sweet basil evermore,

And moistened it with tears unto the core."

KEATES, FROM BOCCACCIO.

H. M. R.

THAT lovely lady, who with weeping eyes

Hung over her sweet basil evermore,"

As though her love it could to her restore, Nursing its growth with tears and fragrant sighs, Soft as the falling dews of evening skies: Cold were her feelings, cold the love she bore For him whose loss she sadly did deplore, To the pure love and fervent prayers which rise For my sweet Basil! oh nought earthly may With the enduring holy love compare That fills a mother's heart: to God I pray That this dear child he will for heaven prepare ; For while her basil blooms but for a day, Mine to a life eternal is the heir!

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER.

On being reminded that she was a month old on that day.

WORDSWORTH.

Hast thou then survived,

Mild offspring of infirm humanity,

Meek infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn, one life of that bright star,
The second glory of the heavens?—Thou hast,
Already hast survived that great decay,

That transformation through the wide earth felt,
And by all nations. In that Being's sight,
From whom the race of human kind proceeds,
A thousand years are but as yesterday;
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
Not less capacious than a thousand years.
But what is time? what outward glory? neither
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through 'heaven's eternal year.'-Yet hail to thee,
Frail, feeble monthling!-by that name methinks
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth,