POETRY. OUR MOTHER'S EPITAPH. [The beautiful epitaph on which the subjoined lines are founded, is copied from an American paper. It reminds us of the simple and sublime memorials of some of the earlier Christians, from the Catacombs of Rome, so well described by Maitland, and familiar to most of our readers through the Rev. William Arthur's recent Lecture, at Exeter Hall.] "WHEN WILL MORNING COME?" "OUR mother fell asleep"-but her repose "When will the morning come?" Within thy smile, And when thy sun had set, ours sank to rest Flooding with glory Death's retiring wave Yet, Mother, but a little while, and we Shall sleep in Jesus, to awake with thee. Morning will come, and this mistaking sight Feel with new power the word-"Let there be LIGHT!" *Isaiah, xxi 11, 12 Then shall we know as we are known, nor thread AN INVITATION. COME, with thine eye still bright And open brow, by sorrow yet unshaded; Now in thy springtide blooming; When wintry storms are glooming; Nor ever fail to meet Through cloud and darkness, gleaming A kindly ray and sweet, Full on thy sorrow beaming. Come, with the full-swollen tide Of life's fresh current through thy bosom rushing, On free libations given Forth from thy heart's glad flow- When noontide heats oppress thee, But waste the strength of youth, Lavish its freshness on thine own wild pleasureGive to the world its fervid love and truth; And bitterly, in sorrow's lonely leisure, Thou'lt rue the gift and mourn the wasted treasure, Split the clouds, which girt the head Hosts of Hebrews standing near, Hide their faces pale with fear. What was spoken Ushered by such dread portent? Lo, a code of wrath is sent; This, if broken, Death of spotless lamb, alone, For the sinner might atone. What subjection To the mandates of their prince, Did this favored race evince? Small defection LYRA. |