THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

WHERE art thou, Boy?-Heaven, heaven! the babe is playing

Even on the margin of the dizzy steep!
Haste-hush! a breath, my agony betraying,
And he is gone!—beneath him rolls the deep!
Could I but keep the bursting cry suppress'd,
And win him back in silence to my breast!

Thou 'rt safe!-Thou com'st, with smiles my fond arms meeting,

Blest, fearless child!-I, I have tasted death! Nearer! that I may feel thy warm heart beating! And see thy bright hair floating in my breath! Nearer to still my bosom's yearning pain,— I clasp thee now, mine own! thou 'rt here again!

CHRISTINE.

Oh! Love can take

What sh pe he pleases, and when once begun
His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain

The after knowledge which his presence gives:
We weep or rave, but still he lives,-he lives
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain.
Barry Cornwall.

I CANNOT, cannot change my tone,
My lute must breathe what is its own;
It is my own heart that has taught
My constancy of mournful thought.
Tell me not of Spring's sunshine hour,
I have but known its blight and shower;
And blame me not, that thus I dwell
On love's despair, and hope's farewell.
I know not what this life may be ;
I feel but what it is to me.

The golden violets of fame,

I would but have it breathe to thee

My deep and lone fidelity;

My unrequited tenderness

Living on its own sweet excess.
Oh! I have blushed to hear my soug
Borne on the tide of praise along :
But deem not, dear oue, only praise
The colour on my cheek could raise;
I blushed to think that thou might'st hear
My song of passion's timid fear;

That with the words a thought might steal
Of all I felt, of all I feel.

On to my tale: it tells of one

Who loved not more than I have done :
That deep and lonely faith which bears
With chance, and change, and lapse of years;
Turns like the floweret to the sun,
Content with being shone upon;

Although its gift of light and air
The meanest with itself may share.

The moon hath shed her gentlest light
On the Garonne's blue wave to-night,
No wind disturbs, no ripple jars
The mirror, over which the stars
Linger like beauties. O'er the tide,
But noiseless, all the white sails glide.
Around are the green hills, where cling
The Autumn's purple gathering ;