And now no early friend appears,

To soothe thy mortal groan;
And she, of all thy friends the chief,
Why comes she not?-She died of grief!
Mother-if e'er a mother's eye

This tale of truth beguile
O, turn thy watchful scrutiny

E'en on thine infant's smile;
And heed the prophecy of ill,
Dark scroll, in childhood's rebel will.
While bright the fatal pages stand

Of life's unwritten book,
Direct to one Almighty hand,

Faith's oft-imploring look; And as the fair inscription shines, O strengthen thou the holy lines. Mrs. Gilbert,

THE PATH OF THE WIND.

Who can tell from what fetter unbound,

That spirit of storm comes sweeping on? Or who the dark hidden cave hath found,

Where he sleeps when his chains hold him down? He cometh—he cometh-the fierce and free!

He hath floated the flag o’er the field of fight, And swell'd the white sails that gleam on the sea,

Like moonlit clouds in the vault of night. He hath breath'd on the gold orange bough,

On the land where the pale lemon blooms; He hath been where the myrtle trees grow,

And he comes with a thousand perfumes.

He hath howl'd on the high hoary steep,

Where the ice-king in state hath his home; Freezing the tear that the mourner weeps,

Ere it fall on the snow-mantlid tomb. He hath fann'd the zone where the red sun shoots

His fiery rays o'er the burning sands; He hath swept thro' halls where the bittern hoots

'Mid the fall’n pride of wasted lands: He hath crested the billows with foam,

He hath curled the brook's tiny wave,
He hath rush'd past the eagle's proud home,

He hath sigh'd o'er the warrior's grave.
He hath soar'd where the wild vultures tire,

He hath moan'd where the meadow-grass grows, He hath torn up the woods in his ire,

He hath ruffled the leaves of the rose. 0, who can arrest his career ?

Or who his dread power explore ? Bow down all ye creatures, in fear,

And the glory that made him adore. Original.

THE CHILD AND FLOWERS. Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou rang'd the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song
Breath'd o'er the names of that flow'ry throng ;
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim :
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreamy haunt for romance and love;
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.
Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er.
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep
Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep;
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriar's shed.
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.
Oh! happy child in thy fawn-like glee?
What is remembrance or thought to thee?
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring;
O’er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-
What if to droop and to perish soon?
Nature hath mines of such wealth—and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now.
For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one !
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair ;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies ;
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part
’Midst the hidden things of each human heart !

D

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child, for this?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss !
Such be thy portion —the bliss to look
With a reverent spirit, through Nature's book;
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine ;
To read its deep meanings—to see and hear
God in earth's garden—and not to fear !

Mrs. Hemans.

Oh! why amid this hallow'd scene,

Should signs of mortal feud be found ? Why seek with such vain gauds to wean

Our thoughts from holier relics round? More fitting emblems here abound

Of glory's bright, unfading wreath; Conquests, with purer triumphs crown'd;

Proud vict'ries over sin and death! Of these, how many records rise

Before my chasten'd spirit now; Memorials pointing to the skies,

Of Christian battles fought below. What need of yon stern things to shew

That darker deeds have oft been done? Is't not enough for man to know,

He lives but through the blood of One! And thou, mild delegate of God,

Whose words of balm, and guiding light, Would lead us, from earth's drear abode,

To worlds with bliss for ever bright,

What have the spoils of earthly fight

To do with themes 'tis thine to teach ? Faith’s saving grace,-each sacred rite,

Thou know'st to practise as to preach. The blessings of the contrite heart,

Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim : The tears from sinners' eyes that start,

Are meetest records of thy fame! The glory that may grace thy name,

From loftier triumphs sure must spring : The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,

Trophies like these can never bring. Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,

With peace, and love, and hope imbued, Some vision calm of bliss to blot,

And turn our thoughts to deeds of blood,-
Should signs of battle-fields intrude?

Man wants no trophies here of strife ;
His oriflamme-faith unsubdued ;
His panoply—a spotless life.

B. Barton.

A PRIL.

Now infant April joins the spring,

And views the wat’ry sky,
As youngling linnet tries its wing,

And fears at first to fly.
With timid step she ventures on,

And hardly dares to smile,
Till blossoms open one by one,

And sunny hours beguile.