The sick'ning waste of toil and cares. -And though, perchance, the ingrate knee Bends not in praise, or prayer to thee, Though Sin that stole with traitor-sway Even Peter's loyalty away,

May strongly weave its seven-fold snare,
And bring dejection and despair;

Yet not the morn with cheering eye
More duly lights the expecting sky,
Nor surer speeds on pinion light
Each measur'd moment's trackless flight,
Than comes thy mercy's kind embrace
To feeble man's forgetful race.

17

"TWAS BUT A BABE.

I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven
From its young rooting; and with silent lip
They pointed to a new-made chasm among
The marble-pillared mansions of the dead.
Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch?
The tearless crowd pass'd on—" 'twas but a babe."
A babe!-and poise ye, in the rigid scales
Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth?

Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh
Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt
Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief,
Perchance, when youth, maturity or age,

Sink in the thronging tomb; but when the breath
Grows icy on the lip of innocence

Repress your measured sympathies, and say "Twas but a babe."

What know ye of her love

Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim,
Over her drooping infant, with an eye
Bright as unchanging Hope, if his repose?

What know ye of her woe who sought no joy

More exquisite, than on his placid brow

To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn
The angel-sweetness of his waking smile?

Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave,

So narrow,

and so noteless, might not close

Without a tear?

And though his lip be mute,

Feeling the poverty of speech to give

Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow,

And the deep agonising prayer that loads

Midnight's dark wing to Him, the God of strength, May satisfy thy question.

Ye, who mourn

Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes

That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide

Of alienated joy, can ye not trust

Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care

Passeth a mother's love?

When a few hasting years

Can ye not hope

their course have run,

To go to him, though he no more on earth

Returns to you?

And when glad faith doth catch

Some echo of celestial harmonies,

Archangel's praises, with the high response

Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think

Think that your babe is there.

A MOTHER'S COUNSELS.

DAUGHTER, the Book Divine,
To which we turn for aid,

When prosperous skies unclouded shine,
Or dark wing'd storms invade,

Is ever open to thine eye,

Imprint it on thy soul,

And wisdom that can never die

Shall thy young thoughts control.

Sweetest, the cheek of bloom,
Alas! how soon 'twill wear

The clay-cold coloring of the tomb :
Then while thine own is fair,
Low at his feet imploring fall,

Who loves the humble mind,

And whose high promise is, that all
Who early seek shall find.

Come, ere thy hand hath wove
- The first, fresh wreaths of Spring,

Come, ere a worn and wither'd love

Is all thou hast to bring, Remember thy Creator's power,

While life from care is free,

That when the days of darkness lower, He may remember thee.

Yes, give thy heart to Him,

While budding Hope is green,

And when thy mother's eye is dim
To every earthly scene,

When this fond arm that circles thee

Must chill and powerless lie,

Our parting tear, the pledge shall be
Of union in the sky.

17*