THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

MISS BOWLES.

My baby! my poor little one! thou'st come a winter flower,

A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour; Thou comest with the snowdrop-and like that pretty thing,

The Power that called my bud to life will shield its blossoming.

The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and warm,

Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm;

I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long-but well I know

The Everlasting arms, my babe, will never let thee go!

The snowdrop-how it haunts me still!-hangs down her fair young head,

So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead;

And yet the little snowdrop's safe!-from her instruction seek,

For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek!

Yet motherless thou 'lt not be long-not long in name, my life,

Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer

wife;

Be loving, dutiful to her ;-find favour in her sight; child! forget thine own poor mo

oh my

But never,
ther quite.

But who will speak to thee of her? the gravestone at her head

Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the

dead!

But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for

thee,

That crowded years into an hour, of brief maternity.

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there

That picture, that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair!

Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thy own

Oh take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone !

To breathe thine early griefs unto—if such assail my child;

Toturn to, from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas! unconscious little one! thou'lt never know

the best,

The holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast.

I do repent me now too late, of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought:

I've been too hasty, peevish, proud,-I longed to go

away;

And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let

me stay.

Thou❜lt have thy father's eyes, my

how kind they were!

child!-oh! once

His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair ;

But here's a mark-poor innocent! he'll love thee for 't the less,

Like that upon thy mother's cheek his lips were wont to press.

And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all's forgot

But our young loves, in memory's mood, he'll kiss this very spot.

Oh, then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast,

And whisper, that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last.

I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and

signs,

With the guardian band of angels, that round about them shines,

Unseen by grosser senses;-beloved one! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now?

Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might have been

A bride last year,-and now to die! and I am scarce nineteen ;—

And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love,

so new,

So deep! could that have run to waste? could that have failed me too?

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side!

My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its

pride;

To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and rare!

To hear it said, “How beautiful! and good as she is fair!"

And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright young brow!

Oh no! not that 't is full of thorns; alas, I'm wandering now.

This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last;

I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past.

And hast thou not one look for me?-those little rest

less eyes

Are wandering, wandering everywhere, the while thy mother dies:

And yet perhaps, thou'rt seeking me-expecting me, mine own!

Come death, and make me to my child at least in spirit known!