And from her snowy forehead threw the long Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly: The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue- TO MY MOTHER. THEY tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, And thus, though wooed by flattering friends, This heart, my own dear mother, bends THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. THE wars for many a month were o'er As I drew near, the cottage blazed, My father in his corner sat, My mother drew her useful thread; MOORE. And Jean oft whispered to a friend, What could I do? If in I went, I drew a bandage o'er my face, And crooked up a lying knee; And soon I found, in that best place, I ventured in ;-Tray wagged his tail, I changed my voice to that of age: 66 A soldier! aye, the best we have!" My father then drew in a seat; 66 You're welcome,” with a sigh, he said. My mother fried her best hung meat, "I had a son," my father cried, And many a message have I brought Long for John Goodman's have I sought, "Oh! does he live?" my father cried; My mother did not stay to speak; My Jessy now I silent eyed, Who throbbed as if her heart would break. My mother saw her catching sigh, "He lives indeed! this kerchief see, An arrow darting from a bow Could not more quick the token reach; The patch from off my face I drew, And gave my voice its well-known speech. "My Jessy dear!" I softly said,— She gazed and answered with a sigh; My sisters looked, as half afraid; My father danced around his son; THE DYING BOY. I KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod And when the eighth came round, and called him out And sought his chamber, to lie down and die! "Twas night-he summoned his accustomed friends, And on this wise bestowed his last bequest: "Mother! I'm dying now ; There is deep suffocation in my breast, As if some heavy hand my bosom press'd; I feel the cold sweat stand; My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath Here—lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus, beneath my head, Never beside your knee Shall I kneel down again at night to pray; Oh, at the time of prayer, When you look round and see a vacant seat, "Father! I'm going home! To the good home you speak of, that bless'd land Storms do not come. I must be happy then: From pain and death you say I shall be free— "Brother! the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers, Forget it not! Plant there some box or pine— Something that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory, Sister! my young rose tree, That all the spring has been my pleasant care, And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away-my short life done! . "Now, mother, sing the tune You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep! Who was it called my name?-Nay, do not weep, You'll all come soon!" Morning spread over earth her rosy wings— ANON. THE HOUND. DEAD on the battle-field True to his lord and trust, |