Never was aught more dearly loved

Than my fair, beauteous flower ;— And closer to my heart of hearts

I clasped it every hour.

The dream, the wild, sad dream of woe, Came never to my heart,

That from my own sweet bud of bliss I might be called to part.

One day, upon its tender stem
It could not lift its head,-

And, with a tremor through its heart,
Its petals bright were shed.

Alas! One had been near my flower

Whose icy, shivering breath

Had chilled it to its very core;—

It was the BLIGHT OF DEATH.

Sadly we raised its drooping head,—
We watered it with tears,-

And night and day hung over it

With agony and fears.

We strove to stay the withering blight;—

But it was all in vain;

No sunshine could revive it now,

Nor dew, nor gentle rain.

And still we prayed, and still we hoped,
Oft cheered by some slight token,
Till one dark morn-oh, agony !—
My cherished bud was broken.
But could it be that all my hopes,-
My dreams of bliss were fled?-

Sorrow alas! O could it be

My darling flower was dead?

Sad, sad the change that thus passed o'er My blossom fair and bright!

They tore it from my bleeding heart,

They hid it from my sight.

And now my broken bud doth lie

Under the damp earth-sod,

Shut out from all the sunlight sweet;

Wasting beneath the clod.

But I shall see my bud again,

'Mid fairest flowers of heaven.

Oh! then in bright, celestial bloom, "Twill back to me be given.

Then let me still my aching heart, And bless the friendly Hand,

Which early gathered it from earth, Into the better land.

THE BROKEN BUD.

The Mather's Flower.

"Hallowed forever be the hour

To us, throughout all time to come,
Which gave us thee, a living flower,
To bless and beautify our home."

WHAT a tide of feeling rushes in upon a mother's heart when a new-born infant is laid in her arms. Gratitude, love, tenderness, solicitude, and a feeling as nearly allied to bliss as any merely human feeling can be, blend in one overpowering emotion. And yet the solicitude is so intense, as to cast flitting shadows over the bright sunshine of this hour.

If ever a mother prays, will she not at such a time, entreat the Good Shepherd tenderly to guide her little lamb over the rough and thorny path of life, into the green pastures of the heavenly fold? And if it be her first-born which she

looks upen, what a thrill passes over her! She feels herself a new being; life wears a sunnier aspect. Anid smiles and tears, she lifts up her heart to Him, who, by entrusting her with the training of an immortal spirit, has not only opened a new fountain of feeling in her soul, but has laid upon her the deepest and most solemn responsibility As she looks upon her child, her heart responds to the beautiful sentiments uttered by one in the first experience of a mother's love.

"Oh God! thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest!

This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from heaven,—
This bird, with the immortal wing,
To me―to me--thy hand has given.

*

A silent awe is in my room,

*

I tremble with delicious fear,
The fature, with its light and gloom,
Tire and eternity are here.

*

Doubts--hones, in eager tumult rise;

Hear, oh my God! one earnest prayer,

Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel plumage there."