The boatman beckons―go in peace!
May God preserve you, man and wife,
Your fields of rice and maize increase,

And with His blessings crown your life.

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

By CAROLINE Bowles.

My baby! my poor little one: thou'rt come a winter flower,

A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour:

Thou comest with the snowdrop, and, like that pretty thing, The power that call'd my bud to life will shield its blossoming.

The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and

warm,

Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the

storm;

I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long-but well

I know,

The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go.

The snowdrop-how it haunts me still-hangs down her fair young head;

So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been

dead;

And yet the little snowdrop's safe! from her instruction

seek,

For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek.

Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name, my

life!

Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife:
Be loving, dutiful to her-find favour in her sight-
But never, O my child, forget thine own poor mother quite.

But who will speak to thee of her? the gravestone at her

head

Will only tell the name, and age, and lineage of the dead! But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for thee— That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity.

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there— That picture that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair;

Some chamber in thy father's house, they'll let thee call thine own

O! take it there, to look upon when thou art all alone!

To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child

To turn to, from less loving looks, from faces not so mild: Alas! unconscious little one! thou'lt never know that best, That holiest, home of all the earth, a living mother's breast.

I do repent me now too late, of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought; I've been too hasty, peevish, proud-I long'd to go awayAnd, now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay.

Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-oh! once how kind they were!

His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair:

But here's a mark-poor innocent-he'll love thee for't the

less,

Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to

press.

And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all's forgot

But our young loves, 'in memory's mind-he'll kiss this very

spot;

Oh! then, my dearest, clasp thine arms about this neck full

fast,

And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the

last.

I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines,

Unseen by grosser senses-Beloved one! dost thou

Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now?

Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might have been

A bride last year-and now to die; and I am scarce nine

teen

And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love so new, So deep! could that have run to waste? could that have fail'd me too?

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my

side,

My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its

pride;

To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and

rare

To hear it said, "How beautiful! and good as she is fair!"

And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright young brow;

Oh no! not that 'tis full of thorns: alas! I'm wandering

now:

This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last

I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past.

And hast thou not one look for me? those little restless

eyes,

Are wandering, wandering everywhere, the while thy mother

dies:

And yet, perhaps, thou'rt seeking me-expecting me, mine

own!

Come, Death, and make me to my child at least in spirit

known.

AN ENIGMA.

One of the clever jeux-d'esprit of W. M. PRAED, containing poetry

and wit.

LORD RONALD by the rich torchlight

Feasted his vassals tall;

And he broach'd my first, that jovial knight,

Within his banner'd hall:

The red stream went from wood to can,

And then from can to mouth,

And the deuce a man knew how it ran,
Nor heeded, north or south:

"Let the health go wide," Lord Ronald cried,
As he saw the river flow,-

"One health to-night to the noblest bride,
And one to the stoutest foe!"

Lord Ronald kneel'd, when the morning came,

Low in his mistress' bower;

And she gave him my second, that beauteous dame,
For a spell in danger's hour:

Her silver shears were not at hand;
And she smiled a playful smile,
As she cleft it with her lover's brand,

And grew not pale the while:

"And ride, and ride," Lord Ronald cried,
As he kiss'd its silken glow ;—

"For he that woos the noblest Bride

Must beard the stoutest Foe!"

Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair,
In his garb of glittering mail;

And mark'd how my whole was crumbling there
With the battle's iron hail :

The bastion and the battlement

On many a craven crown,

Like rocks from some huge mountain rent,
Were tumbling darkly down:

"Whate'er betide," Lord Ronald cried,

As he bade his trumpets blow,

“I shall win to-night the noblest Bride,
Or fall by the stoutest Foe!"

A SLEEPING NYMPH.

We have not yet resorted to the works of that great master of the English language-DRYDEN. He is fallen into strange neglect -few read him. His volumes gather dust upon the book shelf, and few are aware what a mine of poetical wealth is hid beneath it. Our readers may form some notion of his descriptive powers, and the fine racy composition of sterling English in which his poems are written, by the following exquisite picture :—

By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood,
By which an alabaster fountain stood:
And on the margin of the fount was laid,
Attended by her slaves, a sleeping maid;
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tired with sport,
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort.

The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguished by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And e'en in slumber a superior grace.
Her comely limbs composed with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymar,
Her bosom to the view was only bare;
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied,
For yet their places were but signified.

The fanning wind upon her bosom blows;

To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose;

The fanning wind and purling streams continue her repose.

THE LAST WISH.

The celebrated WILSON, the ornithologist, requested that he might be buried near some sunny spot where the birds he loved so in his life might come and sing over his grave. This has been adopted as a text by an anonymous American writer, and improved in the following beautiful lines.

In some wild forest shade,

Under some spreading oak, or waving pine,
Or old elm, festoon'd with the gadding vine,
Let me be laid.