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,

Oh! these are recollections

Round mother's hearts that cling

That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

179

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.

Thou’rt safe in heaver, 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.

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.