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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!

Aye 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'd 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 live-long night

(Feeling 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 mothers' 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.

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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.

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 clasp'd me,
The innocent lips that prest.
Would they have been as pure
Till now, as when of yore

I lull'd thee on my breast?

Now, 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.'

THE BARREL ORGAN.

[MISS ROSCOE.]

THE father sat and watch'd his boy,

With all a father's woe; Fled was the rosy light of joy, And faded his young brow;

Dark shades were gathering o'er its grace,
And death was stamp'd on that sweet face.

And yet he linger'd still-at fits,
A brief reviving beam,
In melancholy beauty, flits

Across his cheek;-that gleam
Deceives the father's throbbing heart,
To think perchance they may not part.
What soothes the little sufferer now?
Ah! music pours its strain,-
With smiles his dying features glow,
The child forgets his pain!

And his small feeble hand with care
Beats time to his own favourite air.

It play'd-that simple careless tune,
While numbers pass'd it by ;
But ever, as those notes begun,

His pale cheek flushed with joy;
And his bright eye his father's sought
With all its childish pleasure fraught.

The organ past-and all forgot

The music fled away;

But the young sufferer knew the spot,

And the accustomed day;

And ever, as it took its round,

His heart was sooth'd with that sweet sound.

But ah! glad strains, and tender cares,
From death may never save;

Soon torn from all sweet sounds he shares
The silence of the grave;

And, with a cold and breaking heart,
The father sees his child depart.

He takes him to his tomb-and then,
All steep'd in speechless woe;
Returns unto his home again,
But not one tear will flow:
The lonely room-the vacant seat,
His eyes in silent stupor meet.

What stirs him from his deep despair?
What wakens all his heart?

It plays again-that simple air-
And tears like rain-drops start:

In

every note-in every tone,

He feels his child again his own.

And thoughts of tenderness and love
Creep softly o'er his grief,
And draw his spirit far above

A world so sad and brief:

The airs of heaven are in his ear

His child in angel-light is near:

THE

FOOTSTEP'S FALL.

[W. JERDAN, ESQ.]

THE Footstep's Fall! time presses on,

With you,

with me, with all;

And sad it is to mark the change

Ev'n in the footstep's fall.

I recollect those childish days,
When innocent, and small
Like fairy prints, upon the grave
Were seen our footstep's fall.
I recollect that riper age,

When, blest in love's sweet thrall,
Swiftly, to meet, o'er night's lone path,

Echoed the footstep's fall.

I've known the dream, that flies ere proved,
Eager at pleasure's ball,
Where merry, merry rang the laugh,
Merry the footsteps fall.

I've known the busy, business world,
The world of care and gall-
Where, drudging weary years of toil,
Heavy the footsteps fall.

And now the tottering frame of eld
Slowly obeys the call;

Life wanes apace, still hastening down,
And feebly footsteps fall.

The end is near,-the last dark step,-
The coffin and the pall;

Silence-and never more on earth
Shall sound our footstep's fall!

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