Fair arms on which the emerald shone, And feet that seemed but made to tread Laughs like glad music, as their all Of life had been a festival. And CHRISTINE marvelled that such mirth Could find a welcome upon earth. She had been nursed 'mid forest trees, And vineyards, birds, and flowers and bees; To turn the false lip to a mask The heart of bitterness and pride, Like those gay coloured plants that wreath Their blossoms on the snake beneath. And suddenly the gorgeous room Was filled with music, light, and bloom; "Twas RAYMOND's love: her braided hair But now-oh, thus had RAYMOND sold His heart, his once fond heart, for gold! A pilgrim at an altar lay. The chapel hung with silk and flower, Meet for LORD RAYMOND's bridal hour.- No marvel at his early fate! A chain of gold lay on the shrine, Of him whom my love could not bless." L. E. L. H THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! Burns. I. My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes, When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries ; For I thought of all that I had borne as I bent me down to kiss Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss! II. I turned to many a withered hope,-to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain ; I thought of friends, grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes, And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose ! I gazed upon thy quiet face-half blinded by my tears Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears, Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are 'round them. IV. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more; And for the hopes-the sun-bright hopes-that blossomed at thy birth,— They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth! 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe, For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed ere my hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then, Grows far more prized-more fondly loved-in sickness and in pain; And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul-for all that thou hadst cost! VII. Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee, day by day, Pale like the second bow of Heaven, as gently waste away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears we dared not breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief to wait death's coming cloud. VIII. It came at length;-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last ; In thicker gushes strove thy breath,—we raised thy drooping head,— [the dead! A moment more—the final pang-and thou wert of |