In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that a mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my
guide;

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim and her locks were
gray,

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,

And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped;
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear.
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
"Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she
died,

And memory flows like lava-tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my
cheek;

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

Kiss him once for Somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were Somebody's pride, you know;
Somebody's hand had rested there:
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best; he was Somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer;

To stop a wretch's breath?

That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart,

A prey unto thy dart?

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

(It is said that the author of this popular poem wished to remain unknown. It was first published in the "Southern Churchman," her name being attached without her knowledge. While it may be a matter of wonder that she has never written anything else, it may be conJectured that her wishes have not been disregarded in respect to other poems.)

INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day.
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;

All earthly comforts vanish thus;
So little hold of them have we,
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravished be.
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise,
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.

GEORGE WITHER.