The mother watches o'er her boy Till morning stars grow ḍim, As though the sum of earthly joy Were all locked up in him. But not like hers our Father's love: The mother may forget; But he, while wasteless ages move, Will love as truly yet! THE MIND. BY HENRY BACON. O, COULD I sing what now my soul doth feel Of the deep-hidden and mysterious mind, My song would thrilling, wondrous thoughts reveal, And by its power the sense of hearing bind; While in the caverns of the heart the sounds would ring, And from the deep repose the holiest feelings bring. O Mind! thou heaven-descended God in man! The hidden springs that gave creation birth, O, thou art glorious in thy strength, as when And bade thee have dominion, and subdue, - and feel When thou dost feel thy strength, the universe Is but a moving picture in thy sight, And to thyself the precious truths rehearse That this array is but an effort slight, Compared with what of God eternity shall show, When thou with seraphim thy holier home shall know. Then, then shalt thou search deep, where now not e'en And thou on tireless wings shalt roam, unfettered, free, DREAMS, BY AN OCTOGENARIAN. Ir is the privilege of age to be egotistical, and the benevolence of younger and hardier spirits looks with a lenient eye on the self-adulation of those whose days are verging on the tomb. Such now are mine, for I am an old woman. So the more juvenile portion of my acquaintances call me, and it is long since I shrank from the epithet. Last Monday was my eightieth birthday, and, amidst the feebleness of declining life, I can freely say I would not exchange one frosted tress for the sunniest ringlet that curls over the brow of youth; for time hath taught me the wisdom and beauty of God's appointment,—change and decay,—and I wait with serenity, the last great change that shall reveal a higher and better existence. I have been a dreamer of dreams, ay, of the wild and impossible, the sad and the beautiful, but the night is nearly done; yet one little period of thick, impenetrable darkness, and then will come the dawn that shall scatter all shadows thenceforth and forever. The mind shall not then, as here, wander darkly among its fond imaginings, grasping with ineffectual eagerness at each eluding phantom, and find itself alone amidst mockeries, but the glorious visions that flitted through the long, troubled sleep shall take upon themselves life, and settle into perpetual reality. Years of the sunny spring-tide, I would not recall you, could I bid the past give up its key! Ye came as the ministers of One whose nature is just and good, and ye departed at the same bidding. Blissful and full of beauty ye were, when here, and, when gone, there were gleams of joy from your ministrations, shed over the passing moment, and far into the darkening future. Ye fled, and mine is not the wish to bring ye again, for time hath softened each regret, and touched with tenderer love each hallowed memory. But, beneath that gentle influence, I would trace once more the dim phantoms of each scene; for a brief space, banish each shade of departed grief, and gather around me only the lovelier forms of early, vanished hopes. The wish is granted. The long years that stretch between youth and age are gone, and skies, bluer than skies are now, are bending over me, and balmier winds are breathing on my brow, and the glow, the freshness of young life, hath returned to each failing pulse. Visions, false, but beautiful, come floating along on the view, visions, belonging only to those days when the bud and flower are types of the expanding soul, when the ideals assume palpable images, and we worship them as living and attainable things. But in that long array of visionary ob |