And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,

Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Donati lived; and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something-
Something he could not find—he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain’d a while
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!
All else had perish'd, save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

The Dying Mother to her Infant. 131

The Lily of the Valley.

BY THE REV. G. CROLY.

WHITE bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean,

WHIT

The cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow, Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, An eremite beneath his mountain's brow.

White bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovelier thing-
The broken spirit that its anguish bears

To silent shades, and there sits offering

To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears.

The Dying Mother to her Infant.

BY CAROLINE 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 call'd my bud to life will shield its blos-
soming.

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;
But never, O my child! forget thine own poor mother 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 thine

own

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

To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my childTo turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas, unconscious little one! thou 'lt never know the best, That 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 long'd to go away: And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay.

The Dying Mother to her Infant.

133

Thou 'lt have thy father's eyes, my child-Oh once how kind

they were!

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 beenA bride last year--and now to die! and I am scarce nine

teen ;

And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love, so new, So deep!—could that have run to waste?—could that have fail'd 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 'tis 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 restless

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 spirits known!

On a Very Old Wedding Ring.

By G. W. DOANE.

The device-two hearts united.

The motto "Dear love of mine, my heart is thine."

I

LIKE that ring, that ancient ring

Of massive form, and virgin gold,

As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old.

I like it, for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, and other days,

The men and days of deeds sublime.