Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight

Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might,—

But no
So little to be loved, and thou so much,

- what here we call our life is such,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean cross'd),
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;

So thou with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,

And thy lov'd consort on the dangerous tide

Of life long since has anchored by thy side;

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd,

Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course;
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth,
But higher far my proud pretensions rise -
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell!-Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, nor sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.

BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER'S

FUNERAL.

-Mrs. Lydia A. Sigourney.

HENCE is that trembling of a father's hand,

WHE

Who to the man of God doth bring this babe, Asking the seal of Christ? Why doth the voice

That uttereth o'er its brow the triune name,

Falter with sympathy? And most of all,

Why is yonder coffin lid a pedestal

For the baptismal fonts?

And again I ask

But all the answer was those gushing tears

Which stricken hearts did weep,

For there she lay

The fair young mother in that coffin bed,

Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat,

With trembling tenderness to every touch

Of love, or pity, flushed the check no more.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

-Eliza Cook

I

LOVE it! I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would you learn the spell? A mother sat there';

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallow seat with listening ear,

To gentle words that 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 eyes 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 lip and throbbing brow;

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops steal down my cheek;

But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear

My soul from my mother's old arm-chair.