26

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip; he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.-Forth from those blue eyes
There spoke a wistful tenderness—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless hand he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
For ever.

There had been a murmuring sound,

With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears.

The spoiler set

His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow—,
Death gazed and left it there; he dared not steal
The signet ring of Heaven.

L. SIGOURNEY.

Humility does not consist in telling our faults, but in bearing

to be told of them.

THE ALPINE RHODODENDRON.

27

THE ALPINE RHODODENDRON.

[RAFFLES alludes to this beautiful shrub "mingling its little crimson blossoms with the scanty herbage which clothes the mountains, rising almost perpendicularly from the sides of the glacier on the summit of Montanvert."]

Gem of the Alps! 'tis strange to trace
Aught beautiful as thou,

Glad'ning the "solitary place"

With unexpected glow.

Yet, bright one! cold thy bed must be,
And harsh thy evening lullaby;

Would thou wert planted in the bower
Which summer weaves for bird and flower!

And rocked to slumber by the gale
She breathes in yonder sunny vale!

"Oh, tell me not of valley fair,

Where sweeter flow'rets bloom,

I too have sun and healthful air
In this my mountain home;
Yet stranger, doth thy sympathy
Demand some poor return from me;
And what if I, frail lowly thing,
Such lesson to thine heart might bring,
That thou in after hour should'st bless
The flow'ret of the wilderness.

28

THE ALPINE RHODODENDRON.

Deem'st thou these snows scarce fitting bower
For aught so fair as I?

O know, that One, whose will is power,
Has shaped my destiny;

He spake me into being,-shed

His sunshine on my alpine bed,

Bade the strong blast which shook the pine
Pass harmless o'er this head of mine,

And gently reared my early bloom,

'Mid snows which else had been my tomb.

View in this mountain's frozen breast

An emblem true of thine,

So cold, so hard, till on it rest

A beam of light divine.

Feel'st thou this life-inspiring ray?

If not, then upward look and pray
That he who made these mountain-snows
A cradle for the opening rose,

Would deep within thine heart embower

A brighter far than earthly flower.

MORAL OF FLOWERS.

REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS. 29

REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS.

There is a plant, that in its cell
All trembling seems to stand,

And bends its stalk and folds its leaves
From each approaching hand.

And thus there is a conscious nerve
Within the human breast,

That from the rash and careless hand

Sinks and retires distrest.

The pressure rude, the touch severe,
Will raise within the mind

A nameless thrill, a secret tear,

Oh,

A torture undefined.

you

who are by nature form'd, Each thought refined to know!

Repress the word, the glance that wakes

That trembling nerve to woe.

30

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

And be it still your joy to raise
The trembler from the shade,
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wound you never made.

Whene'er you see the feeling mind,
Oh, let this care begin;

And though the cell be ne'er so low,
Respect the guest within.

L. HUNTLEY.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

[Translated from the Portugese, by F. HEMANS.]

The brightness of a mother's love

Can never pass away,

It watcheth, like the brooding dove,
From even-tide till day.

It sitteth by the couch of pain

With quiet placid eye;

"T is free from every dark'ning stain

Of man's infirmity.