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THE DYING MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
(A domestic sketch from real life.)
WEARY and silent on her couch she lay,
Her days, she knew,
With all a mother's tenderness she drew
The darling smiled,
The loving mother tried To answer, but emotion was too deep! She could but bless her, and in silence weep. Oh dying mother! did thy spirit grieve, Thy little ones in this cold world to leave ? No, thou didst trust them to thy Saviour's careLaid them within His arms and left them there, On His sure covenant thy faith relied ; And Israel's God was chosen for their Guide. Thy end was peace! thou art for ever bless'd ! Oh, may thy mantle on thy children rest But, thou, sweet prattler--thou, the youngest born; Fair as the flower which opens with the dawn Thy widowed father's solace and delight; A star which beamed on him through sorrow's night ;Thou hast fulfilled thy promise! thou hast met Thy sainted mother. Nor can we regret That thou hast left us, for her songs of love Welcomed thy entrance to the home above ! Brief was thy separation ; now 'tis o'er ; And death can sever her from thee no more! Amidst the solemn cypress of the tomb, The flowers of faith in rich luxuriance bloom. Our loved ones sleep in Christ ! sweeter their rest Than infant slumbers on a mother's breast; Calmly they closed their eyes on sin and strife And wakened to a new and glorious life ! May their bright destiny our spirits cheer, And strengthen us for toil and suffering here,
Attract us upwards, so that we may rise,
H. M. W.
OUR FATHERS_WHERE ARE THEY ? The earth is fair as 'twas of old,
When first the sun smiled on the scene ;
The glade retains its living green;
The forest shadows darkly fall,
Still roars the mighty waterfall.
Their towering brows before the gale, And the sweet blossoms of the year,
Fringe the blue streamlets of the vale. The clouds float on through ether far away ; Yet is the question heard—“Our Fathers, where are they?" Each in its turn the seasons come,
Obedient to their Maker's will; And ocean's tidal billows foam,
Upon the pleasant sea-shore still ; And on them, as of yore, the sunbeams play,And yet our sad hearts ask—“Our Fathers, where are they?” Lift up the
eye to heaven, for there Within its radiant portals, dwell Our fathers, freed from pain and care,
'Mid bliss and joy unutterable : Yes, in the regions of eternal day, Gathered to God's own band our fathers there are ther.
VERSES ON THE RICHMOND NATIONAL INSTITUTION
FOR THE BLIND, IN IRELAND.
(By a Blind Man, see page 457.).
Can gently drop for human woe,
And here your generous boon bestow.
Whose hearts with pure devotion burn,
Those sightless orbs imploring turn.
In vain the glowing east o'erspreads;
In vain her silv'ry lustre sheds.
In magic softness, pure, serene;
Its dewy light to gild the scene.
Which they must never hope to share,
While sweet emotion speaks in prayer.
The feelings of a grateful mind,
To soothe the sorrows of the blind.
To hearts that catch the joyful sound,
And shed immortal glory round.
In all the gloom of endless night,-
Creation heard, and all was light.