THE DYING WIFE.

H. M. T.

AY my babe upon my bosom,

Let me feel her sweet, warm breath;
A strange chill is passing o'er me,
And I know that it is death.

Let me gaze once more on the treasure
Scarcely given, ere I go;

Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o'er my cheeks of snow.

I am passing through the waters;
But the blessed shore appears.
Kneel beside me, husband dearest,
Let me kiss away thy tears.
Wrestle with thy grief as Jacob
Strove from midnight until day;
It will seem an angel visit
When it vanishes away.

Lay my babe upon my bosom-
'Tis not long I'll know she's there.

See how to my heart she nestles
'Tis a pearl I'd love to wear.

Tell her sometimes of her mother;
You will call her by my name.
Shield her from the winds of sorrow,
If she errs, oh! gently blame.

Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping,
I will answer when she calls;

And my breath shall stir her ringlets
When my voice in whisper falls,
And her mild, blue eyes will brighten
She will wonder whence it came-
In her heart when years roll o'er her,
She will find her mother's name.

If in after years, beside thee
Sits another in my chair,

If her voice is sweeter music,

And her face than mine, more fair,
If a cherub calls thee "Father,"

Far more beautiful than this,

Love your first-born, oh! my husband,
Turn not from the motherless.

NEW POEM BY LORD BYRON.

N the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam falls

Through silence and shade o'er its desolate walls,

It shines from afar like the glories of old:

It gilds but it warms not, 'tis dazzling but cold.

Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days;
'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays,
When the stars are on high and the dews on the ground,
And the long shadow lingers the ruin around.

And the step that o'er-echoes the gray floor of stone
Falls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own;

And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth,
And empty the goblets, and dreary the hearth.

And vain was each effort to raise and recall
The brightness of old to illumine our hall;
And vain was the hope to avert our decline,
And the fame of my fathers has faded to mine.

And theirs was the wealth and the fullness of fame,
And mine to inherit too haughty a name;

And theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore, And mine to regret, but renew them no more.

And ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall,

Too hoary to fade and too massy to fall;

It tells not of time's or the tempest's decay,

But the wreck of the line that have held it in sway.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

J. MILTON.

LEST pair of syrens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power em-
ploy,

Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-color'd throne
To Him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly:

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,

May rightly answer that melodious noise;

As once we did, till disproportioned sin

Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd