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Like a memorial of far better days,

The large old Bible, with its silver clasps,
Lay on the table; and a fragrant air
Came from the window: there stood a rose tree-
Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich

With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers:
It was a slip from that which grew beside

The cottage, once her own, which ever drew

Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane
Where her home stood the home where yet she thought

To end her days in peace: that was the hope

That made life pleasant, and it had been fed

By the so ardent spirits of her boy,

Who said that God would bless the efforts made

For his old mother.-Like a holiday

Each Sunday came, for then her patient way
She took to the white church of her own village,

A long five miles; and many marvelled one
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church.
They knew not how delicious the fresh air,
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes

That looked so seldom on them. She would sit
Long after service on a grave, and watch
The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn,
The lane where yet her home might be; and then



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Return with lightened heart to her dull street,
Refreshed with hope and pleasant memories—
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell,
Wherein they say the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child,
Bless him, then dream of him.

A shout awoke the sleeping town, the night
Rang with the fleet's return and victory!
Men that were slumbering quietly rose up

And joined the shout; the windows gleamed with lights,
The bells rung forth rejoicingly, the paths

Were filled with people; even the lone street

Where the poor widow dwelt was roused, and sleep

Was thought upon no more that night. Next day-
A bright and sunny day it was-high flags

Waved from each steeple, and green boughs were hung
In the gay market-place; music was heard,

Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea
Was covered with proud vessels; and the boats
Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands
Beckoned from crowded decks to the glad strand
Where the wife waited for her husband,-maids
Threw the bright curls back from their glistening eyes
And looked their best,—and as the splashing oar
Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice
Grew musical with happiness! And there

Stood that old widow woman with the rest,
Watching the ship wherein had sailed her son.
A boat came from that vessel,-heavily
It toiled upon the waters, and the oars
Were dipped in slowly. As it neared the beach,
A moaning sound came from it, and a groan
Burst from the lips of all the anxious there,
When they looked on each ghastly countenance,
For that lone boat was filled with wounded men,
Bearing them to the hospital-and then

That aged woman saw her son.
She prayed,
And gained her prayer, that she might be his nurse,
And take him home. He lived for many days,

It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice,
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses-
The roses that were gathered one by one
For him by his fond parent nurse: the last
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night,
That very night, he died! And he was laid
In the same church-yard where his father lay-
Through which his mother as a bride had passed.
The grave was closed: but still the widow sat
Upon a sod beside, and silently

(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for)
The funeral train passed on, and she was left
Alone amid the tombs ; but once she looked

Towards the shadowy lane, then turned again,
As desolate and sick at heart, to where
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together
She went home to her lonely room.
Next morn

Some entered it, and there she sat,
Her white hair hanging o'er the withered hands
On which her pale face leant: the Bible lay
Open beside, but blistered were the leaves
With two or three large tears, which had dried in.
Oh, happy she had not survived her child!

And many pitied her, for she had spent

Her little savings, and she had no friends:
But strangers made her grave in that church-yard,
And where her sailor slept, there slept his mother!


Miss L. E. Landon..

It comes-it comes upon the gale,
That pensive voice of days gone past,

With early feelings down life's vale,
On Arab airs as odours sigh.

Oh! on this far and foreign shore,
How doubly blest that song appears;
Long days and distance wafting o'er
The sweetness of departed years.

The scene around me fades away,
As at the wave of magic wand-
I see the glens, and mountains grey,
And wild woods of my native land.

The summer bower, the silent stream, The scenes of youth, are on the strain; And peopled in my waking dream

With forms I ne'er shall see again.

As on my wanderings when a child,

That music comes at close of day, Along the dim and distant wild,

And wafts my spirit far away.

And on the heart as it distils,
Dear as the dew drop to the leaf,
Oh how the rising bosom thrills
Beneath the mystic joy of grief.

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