Thou'rt gone from us, bright one-that thou should'st die,

And life be left to the butterfly.

Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough,

-Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

MRS. HEMANS.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT.

I LOVED thee, daughter of my heart;
My child, I loved thee dearly;
And though we only met to part,
-How sweetly! how severely!-
Nor life nor death can sever
My soul from thine for ever.

Thy days, my little one, were few;

An Angel's morning visit,

That came and vanish'd with the dew;

'Twas here, 't is gone, where is it?

Yet didst thou leave behind thee
A clue for love to find thee.

The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow,
The hands stretch'd forth in gladness,
All life, joy, rapture, beauty now;
Then dash'd with infant-sadness;
Till, brightening by transition,
Return'd the fairy vision →

Where are they now?-those smiles, those tears,
Thy mother's darling treasure?
She sees them still, and still she hears
Thy tones of pain or pleasure,

To her quick pulse revealing
Unutterable feeling.

Hush'd in a moment on her breast,
Life, at the well-spring drinking;
Then cradled on her lap to rest
In rosy slumber sinking,

Thy dreams-no thought can guess them;
And mine-no tongue express them.

For then this waking eye could see,
In many a vain vagary,

The things that never were to be,
Imaginations airy;

Fond hopes that mothers cherish,
Like still-born babes to perish.

Mine perish'd on thy early bier;
No,-changed to forms more glorious,
They flourish in a higher sphere,
O'er time and death victorious;

Yet would these arms have chain'd thee,
And long from heaven detain'd thee.

Sarah! my last, my youngest love,
The crown of every other!

Though thou art born in heaven above,
I am thine only Mother,

Nor will affection let me

Believe thou canst forget me,

Then,-thou in heaven and I on earth,

May this one hope delight us,

That thou wilt hail my second birth,
When death shall reunite us,

Where worlds no more can sever

Parent and child for ever.

MONTGOMERY,

THE DEATH OF A CHILD AT DAY-BREAK.

"Let me go, for the day breaketh."-GEN. xxxi. 35

CEASE here longer to detain me,
Kindest mother, drown'd in woe,
Now thy kind caresses pain me;
Morn advances-let me go.

See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day;
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away!

Lately launch'd, a trembling stranger,
On this world's wild boisterous flood,
Exposed to pain and toss'd with danger,
Gladly I return to God.

Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee,
Now my trembling heart find rest;
Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillow than thy breast.

Weep not o'er these eyes that languish
Upward turn'd towards their home,
Raptured they'll forget all anguish
While they wait to see thee come.

There, my Mother, pleasures centre ;-
Weeping, parting, care, or woe,

Ne'er our Father's house shall enter;-
Morn advances-let me go.

As through this calm and holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath
To an everlasting morning-
Gently close my eyes in Death.

Blessings, endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
(Though no language yet possessing)
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing grieves me,
Though again his voice I hear;
Rise! may every grace attend thee,
Rise! and seek to meet me there!

R. CECIL.

THE LITTLE SHROUD

SHE put him on a snow-white shroud,
A chaplet on his head,

And gathered early primroses

To scatter o'er the dead.

She laid him in his little grave,
('Twas hard to lay him there,)
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And every thing was fair.

She had lost many children-now,

The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept

Beside the funeral stone.

One midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,

She heard a voice, and lo! her child
Stood by her weeping too.

His shroud was damp, his face was white!
He said, "I cannot sleep,

Your tears have made my shroud so wet,
Oh, mother, do not weep!"

Oh, love is strong!-the mother's heart
Was fill'd with tender fears;
Oh, love is strong! and for her child
Her grief restrain'd its tears.

One eve a light shone round her bed,
And then she saw him stand-

Her infant in his little shroud,
A taper in his hand.

"Lo! mother, see, my shroud is dry, And I can sleep once more!'

And beautiful the parting smile

The little infant wore.

And down within his silent grave,

He laid his weary head,

And soon the early violets
Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways

Again she knelt in prayer,

And only ask'd of Heaven its aid

Her heavy lot to bear.

MISS LANDON.