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Thine up-turned eyes glazed over,

Like hare-bells wet with dew; Already veiled and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open-
Thy soft lip quivering,

As if like summer air

Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul was fluttering.

Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit, haste, depart!

And is this death!-dread thing!—

If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Oh! I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face:

So passionless, so pure!—
The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling-place.

Thou weepest, childless mother!

Ay, weep, 'twill ease thine heart;

He was thy first-born son,

Thy first, thine only one,

'Tis hard from him to part!

'Tis hard to lay thy darling

Deep in the damp cold earth,—

His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber,

His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then waken with a start

By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why)

A dull, heart-sinking weight,

Till memory on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,

That thou art desolate!

And then to lie and weep,

And think the livelong night

(Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight;

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,

His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry--

And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections

Round mother's hearts that cling

That mingle with the tears

And smiles of after years,

With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!
In after years look back,—
Time brings such wondrous easing,
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, "My first-born blessing,
It almost broke my heart
When thou wert forced to go;

And yet for thee I know,
"Twas better to depart.

"God took thee in his mercy,
A lamb untasked, untried :
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified!

"I look around and see

The evil ways of men; And, oh! beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then.

"The little arms that clasped me,

The innocent lips that pressed,— Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore,

I lulled thee on my breast?

"Now like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone,

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!
Safe with the Source of Love,

The Everlasting One.

"And when the hour arrives

From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await

The first at Heaven's gate,

To meet and welcome me."

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE PRIMROSE.

I SAW it in my evening walk-
A little lonely flower-
Under a hollow bank it grew,
Deep in a mossy bower.

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave,
With Gothic fret-work sprung,
Where jewelled fern, and arum leaves,
And ivy garlands hung.

And close beneath came sparkling out,
From an old tree's fallen shell,

A little rill, that clipt about

The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with bashful pride,

She seemed to sit and look,

On her own maiden loveliness,
Pale imaged in the brook.

No other flower, no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid;
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun,
In solitude and shade.

No sunbeam on that fairy pool
Darted its dazzling light-

Only, methought, some clear, cold star,
Might tremble there at night.

No ruffling wind could reach her there-
No eye, methought, but mine,

Or the young lambs that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shrine.

And there was pleasantness to me
In such belief-cold eyes,

That slight dear nature's loveliness,

Profane her mysteries.

Long time I looked, and lingered there,

Absorbed in still delight,

My spirits drank deep quietness

In with that quiet sight.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

TREAD Softly-bow the head

In rev'rent silence bow

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

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