NORTON.

THE MOURNERS.

Low she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise,-
The life hath past away!

Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep;

She is there of whom our souls were fond,-
Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.

Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow,-
Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone,

There is silence still and deep;

Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,

Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all,—

And her glossy golden hair!

But though that lid may never wake

From its dark and dreamless sleep;

She is gone where young hearts do not break,— Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright,

This is a world of wo:

Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,

Because we dwell below?

We will bury her under the mossy sod,

And one long bright tress we'll keep; We have only given her back to God,— Ah! wherefore do we weep?

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years,

And natural piety that lean'd to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient of rebuke when justly given: Obedient, easy to be reconciled;

And meekly cheerful,—such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left; still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

Oh boy, of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade,—
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then THOU, my merry love;-bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,

Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile ;-the frequent soft caress;— The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

At length THOU camest; thou, the last and least; Nicknamed "the Emperor," by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile ;—

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou!
An eye of resolute and successful scheming;
Fair shoulders-curling lip-and dauntless brow-
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,

And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing;
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,-
But in the mother's heart found room for ALL!

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

"I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

The spring hath ripened into summer time ;
The season's viewless boundary is past;

The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime!
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
"Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow; I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn,
แ "Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,

To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow;

I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends.
“Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud :
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"