NIGHT WATCHING.

BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

SHE sat beside her lover, and her hand
Rested upon his clay cold forehead. Death
Was calmly stealing o'er him, and his life
Went out by silent flickerings, when his eye
Woke up from its dim lethargy, and cast
Bright looks of fondness on her. He was weak,
Too weak to utter all his heart. His eye
Was now his only language, and it spoke
How much he felt her kindness, and the love
That sat, when all had fled, beside him.

Night

Was far upon its watches, and the voice
Of nature had no sound. The pure blue sky
Was fair and lovely, and the many stars
Looked down in tranquil beauty on an earth
That smiled in sweetest summer. She looked out
Through the raised window, and the sheeted bay
Lay in a quiet sleep below, and shone
With the pale beam of midnight; air was still,
And the white sail, that o'er the distant stream
Moved with so slow a pace, it seemed at rest,
Fixed in the glassy water, and with care
Shunned the dark den of pestilence, and stole
Fearfully from the tainted gale that breathed
Softly along the crisping wave, - that sail
Hung loosely on its yard, and as it flapped,
Caught moving undulations from the light,
That silently came down, and gave the hills,
And spires, and walls, and roofs, a tint so pale,
That death seemed on all the landscape,
but so still,
Who would have thought that any thing but peace
And beauty had a dwelling there?

The world

And she was one, and in a lonely house,

Far from all sight and sound of living thing,

She watched the couch of him she loved, and drew
Contagion from the lips that were to her

Still beautiful as roses, though so pale

They seemed like a thin snow curl. All was still,
And even so deeply hushed, the low, faint breath

That trembling gasped away, came through the night
As a loud sound of awe. She passed her hand
Over those quivering lips, that ever grew
Paler and colder, as the only sign

To tell her life still lingered it went out!
And her heart sank within her, when the last
Weak sigh of life was over, and the room
Seemed like a vaulted sepulchre, so lone
She dared not look around. The light wind,

That played among the leaves and flowers that grew
Still freshly at her window, and waved back
The curtain with a rustling sound, to her,
In her intense abstraction, seemed the voice
Of a departed spirit. Then she heard,
At least in fancy heard, a whisper breathe
Close at her car, and tell her all was done,
And her fond loves were ended.

She had watched

Until her love grew manly, and she checked
The tears that came to flow, and nerved her heart
To the last solemn duty. With a hand

That trembled not, she closed the fallen lid,

And pressed the lips, and gave them one long kiss
Then decently spread over all a shroud;
And sitting with a look of lingering love
Intense in tearless passion, rose at length,
And pressing both her hands upon her brow,
Gave loose to all her gushing grief in showers,
Which, as a fountain sealed till it had swelled
To its last fulness, now gave way and flowed
In a deep stream of sorrow.

She grew calm,

And parting back the curtains, looked abroad
Upon the moonlight loveliness, all sunk

In one unbroken silence, save the moan
From the lone room of death, or the dull sound
Of the slow moving hearse. The homes of men
Were now all desolate, and darkness there,
And solitude and silence took their seat
In the deserted streets, as if the wing
Of a destroying angel had gone by,

And blasted all existence, and had changed
The gay, the busy, and the crowded mart
To one cold, speechless city of the dead!

FILIAL LOVE.

FILIAL love should be cherished. It has, especially, a softening and ennobling effect on the heart. It has been remarked that almost all illustrious persons have been distinguished by love for their mother.

A beautiful feature in the character of the Turks, is reverence for the mother. Their wives may advise or reprimand unheeded, but their mother is an oracle, consulted, confided in, listened to with respect and deference, honored to the latest hour, and remembered with affection and regret even beyond the grave.

'Wives may die,' say they, 'and we can replace them; children perish, and others may be born to us; but who shall restore the mother when she passes away and is seen no more?'-Miss Pardoe.

GOOD NIGHT.*

MUSIC BY WM. C. BROWN. WORDS BY KORNER.

Close the eye and calm the breast;
Stillness through the streets is stealing,
And the watchman's horn is pealing,
And the night calls softly," haste!
Home to rest!"
3 Sweetly sleep!

Eden's breezes round ye sweep,
O'er the peace-forsaken lover,
Let the darling image hover,
As he lies in transport deep,
Sweetly sleep!
4 So good night!

Slumber on till morning light!
Slumber till another morrow

Brings its stores of joy and sorrow;
Fearless, in the Father's sight,

Slumber on, good night, good night!

In the 1st stanza the word "good" is to be slurred in the 1st & last lines. In the last

line of the last stanza, no slur is to be used.

BY MRS. J. 8. LUNT, OF GROTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

It was a cold December day. Boston presented its usual winter appearance. Sleighs of all sorts and loaded with all sorts of people thronged the streets, while foot-passengers in as great variety, and almost as numerous, hurried along the side-walks. In the midst of the crowd, passing up one of the principal streets, were two little boys, apparently similar in their age, but in no other circumstance. The dress of one was rich and warm, that of the other poor and thin in the extreme. Both seemed to be not far from seven years old. The former was talking rapidly and eagerly to his more silent companion.

Thus they walked on, not observing a little girl, as most people would have called her, or a young lady, as she would probably have styled herself, a miss of some twelve years, who was hastening after them; apparently deeming it beneath her dignity to run, and yet too eager to reach them to observe a lady-like walk. She soon gained upon the shorter, though quicker steps of the little boys, and placed herself by the side of the better dressed of the two.

Eugene!' she said, in a hasty, reproving tone, 'what are you going to do with that horrid boy?'

6

The horrid boy' looked up meekly, as she spoke, and disclosed a face, pale and sad indeed, but as far from being repulsive, to a benevolent heart, as were his poor but tidy garments. It seemed that

he had raised his eyes involuntarily, in the first start of surprise at her abrupt words, for they quickly fell again, and were suffused with tears. Eugene glanced first at the girl, then at him, and saw the effect of her harsh words with that intuitive perception which a kind heart seems always to possess, even though that heart be a child's, and vehemently exclaimed, 'for shame, Cornelia! Never mind her, Willy, we'll tell mother how wicked she is.' he ran off, pulling his companion with him.

'Was that your sister?' asked the boy.

Upon this

'Yes,' he replied, but seemed half ashamed of the relationship. The other boy gently drew away his hand, saying at the same time,

'I

guess I wont go to your house.'

Eugene stopped, with a look of surprise.

Why not?' Then,

as if guessing the reason; 'yes, you will too. My mother wont treat you as Cornelia did. She's real good!' Oh, that the high estimate children are wont to put upon the character of their parents, were always the true one!

They soon reached Eugene's home. He dragged Willy after him into the parlor, observing in his haste and eagerness, no one but his mother, and exclaimed, Mother, I've found a poor boy; oh, so poor, and so cold, and his mother 's sick, and they are all so hungry! Tell her all about it, Willy!'

"Eugene,' said his mother calmly and with dignity, though her face was flushed with mortification and anger, 'do you not see Mrs. Norton ?'

Eugene saw her now, though he had not before, and, reminded more by his mother's. looks than words, of his duty in such a case, and of the penalty he had repeatedly incurred for forgetfulness, he bowed to the lady, and was again eagerly addressing his mother. But she motioned him to be silent, and, pointing to a chair, said, 'sit down, Eugene.' Before Eugene had collected his scattered senses sufficiently to obey her command, she ordered the boy whom Eugene had brought, to be taken to the kitchen. Then, turning to Eugene, who still stood, shocked and bewildered, she said again, in the same cold, quiet tone, 'sit down, my son.' Poor Eugene obeyed her. But as he did so, he burst into tears and sobbed aloud. He could not help it, this was so different from the reception he had expected from his mother. He did not half comprehend it all, but he felt that Willy had met with a second and more cruel rebuff, and his little heart was sadly wounded.