Tho' all traces are vanished
Of childhood's brief span,
Yet the grace is not banished
With which childhood began;
No-still to endear thee

There lingers a part:

With what joy I behold thee-
Thou pride of my heart!

Around me thou'rt shining,
A planet of joy-
Away with repining,

And cares that annoy ;
Once more I enfold thee,
Beloved as thou art-
Yet again I behold thee,
Thou pride of my heart!

BEAUTY.

'Tis sweet to gaze on the cloudless sky, Or on the stilly deep

'Tis sweet to view the Heavens on high, When nature is asleep

'Tis sweet when, from a verdant hill,
A beauteous scene we seek;
All these have joy-but sweeter still,
To gaze on Beauty's cheek!

'Tis sweet to hear the lark's first notes, Before the world's awake

Tis sweet to hear when music floats
From o'er a distant lake-

'Tis sweet to hear a gushing rill
In playfulness rejoice;
All these have joy-but sweeter still,
To listen to Beauty's voice!

'Tis sweet to mark the streaks of light
Risc o'er the misty hill—

'Tis sweet to feel the starlit night A holy calm instil

'Tis sweet to see a shining star, All lonely in the sky;

All these have joy-but sweeter far,

The light from Beauty's eye!

THE LAST CHILD.

I feel what I have lost

In him; the bloom hath withered from my life-
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.

Coleridge's Translation of Wallenstein.

To view the blight upon his cheek,

The mildew on his brow

To know he is the only leaf
Upon a withered bough-

To see him fade so silently,

And Death upon him steal

Is agony the most intense

A Mother's heart can feel.

To view that face where health was wont
In other days to glow,
O'ershadowed by the sickly hne

Of death, tho' certain, slow:
To trace upon that countenance
Relics of beauty there,

Is misery the most acute

A Mother's heart can bear.

To hear his faint and feeble voice
Unmurmuringly tell

The pain he feels, the bitter pangs
Within his frame that swell:
To hear the short and stifled moan,
His anguish and his woe,
Is suffering the most intense

A Mother's heart can know.

To take the last, the farewell look,
To give the lingering kiss
To lips whose cold and clammy dew
Tell where the spirit is:
To view each spot, each thing he loved,
On thoughts of him to dwell,
Is deeper grief, and bitterer woe,
Than Mother's tongue can tell.

But He that tempers the rough wind
Unto the lamb that's shorn,
Will still uphold that Mother's heart-
Those griefs shall still be borne;

He will unchain with tender hand

The fountain of her tears,

For midst the gloom that round her rolls, One joy-tinged ray appears:

Her child will know not man's contempt, Or friendship's treacherous calm;

He will not taste life's bitter cup,
Or own its fleeting balm:
But midst the Angels of the Lord,
Who sing their Maker's praise,
He will, untainted by the world,
His own pure accents raise.

Such thoughts as thesc, when mellow time
Softens her bitter grief,

Will raise her downcast spirit up,

And give it true relief;

Such hopes, the Father of his Flock,
To those who Him revere

With tender love will always send-
A Mother's heart to cheer!