One fine and dewy April morn,
Loud at the Widow's door,
Eager to run in search of nests,
Were comrades, three or four.

They went

he never thought of school They went from dawn till eve; Nor did the mother of her son Intelligence receive.

But, hungry, in at dusk he stole,
His knees and elbows torn,

And both his hands displayed the marks
Of many a ragged thorn,

Chastised, indignant, when in bed
He never closed his eyes;
And he was gone before the gold
Had tinged the eastern skies.

Oh, what a weary space of years
That widow dwelt alone!

And still she cried, "Whate'er his fate, "Twould ease me were it known."

At length there came intelligence,
When on a bed of pain,

That told, a few days ere she died,
He in the East was slain.

It dwelt upon his valorous deeds,
And the wealth that he had won;
She thought not of the wealth or deeds,
But of her dying son.

And yet he died not in the East;
He home returned, to trace
The greensward on his mother's grave,
And their ruined dwelling-place.

One day he in the village staid,
And of his gold was free;
Then, with a woful look, he went
Again unto the sea.

I never, on the forest's edge,

Pass the ruined cottage door, But swells the feeling to my heart Of what it was before.

Again I dream the Widow's wheel
Is humming in my ears;
And when I think of what has been
I scarce refrain from tears.

THE HEART'S CONFESSIONS.

BY J. FAIRBAIRN, ESQ.

HEART! wrung with grief and bitter care, Thy wounds unsalved and bleeding still, Who pierced thee thus, poor heart, declare? ." "Twas my own will."

Thy will! What tempter full of guile

Could turn thee from thy hopes aside, And life's young well with wrath defile? ""Twas my own pride."

Bad counsellor! When all around,

Great, fair, and good, conspired to move, From humble joys what had thee bound? ." "Twas my self-love."

Alas! the Charities were near,

The Duties too, an armed troop,

To guide, to fortify, to cheer!

"I could not stoop."

Faith stretched from Heaven her golden key,
And Purity, twice-born, before

The narrow portal beckoned thee!

Wretched! from earth and heaven returned
Empty, what findest thou within,
To balance what thy madness spurned?
"Error and sin!"

TO IANTHE.

Would I were with thee!-but the bright stars shine
On many a mountain that between us lies:
Would I were with thee, and, in thy blue eyes,
Read all that Earth can teach of Heaven to mine.
Ah! it may be not; and, with pensive heart,
I lean on this mossed pine-tree, in the wood,
Where we have oft our twilight path pursued,
And found it bliss to meet, though death to part.
Light of my life! distance more firmly binds
The cords of that love wherewith I love thee;
Linked with my soul it shall for ever be;
In holiest thoughts a hallowed place it finds:
Oh bliss of bliss, when two congenial minds
Together hang, like roses on one tree!

THE SPIRIT'S LAND.

BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.

THE Spirit's Land!

where is that land

Of which our Fathers tell?

On whose mysterious, viewless strand
Earth's parted millions dwell!
Beyond the bright and starry sphere,
Creation's flaming space remote;

Beyond the measureless career,

The phantom flight of thought.

There, fadeless flowers their blossoms wave

Beneath a cloudless sky;

And there the latest lingering tear

Is wiped from every eye;
And souls beneath the trees of life
Repose upon that blessed shore,

Where pain, and toil, and storm, and strife,
Shall never reach them more.