will renew their beauty, while the resurrection alone can revive the tenant of the grave. Perhaps these early impressions sank deeply into his heart, and brought forth in after years fair fruits of faith and virtue. Towards the close of life, the aged Christian pilgrim revisits the little spot be planted, and finds the flowers he cultivated fresh and fair, as when they first sprang to reward his infant toil. He feels their mortal existence will long outlast his own; perchance they may bloom for centuries to come. Yet he knows that these fair things of time are only for a season; while he shall rise from the dust, to die no more. The trumpet of the Archangel,that rings the knell of earth and earthly things, shall bid him awake in renewed beauty to everlasting life.

J. M. S.

LINES

WRITTEN TO ACCOMPANY A PICTURE OF A MOTHER WEEPING OVER A CHILD, FOR WHOM AN ANGEL IS WAITING.

MOTHER.

DARLING of my anguished heart,

Must I see thy life depart?

Solace of our pilgrim way,

Little comforter, O stay!

ANGEL.

Heir of immortality!

I am sent thy guide to be

To an everlasting home

Which awaits thee hither come!

MOTHER.

Star, amidst our darkening night,

Spot of mercy, ever bright,
Must thy beauty pass away,
Scarce arisen?-stay, O stay!

ANGEL.

Summoned to a higher sphere,

Where nor time nor death appear;
From thy blissful centre roam
No longer-Spirit, hither come!

MOTHER.

Shall thy lisping music, dear,
Charm no more thy mother's ear,
As it marked the opening day
Of thy infant mind?-O stay!

ANGEL.

Thou shalt learn a loftier song,
And the cherub hosts among
Read with joy thy favoured doom,
To thy rest so early come!

MOTHER.

Yet, awhile, with me abide :
Ah! that dying smile would chide
The selfish wish-Lord, I obey!
My all is thine to take away,
Since Thou wilt for ever stay!

WHAT IS DEATH?

BY MRS. MOODIE.

WHAT is death? My sister, say,
Ask not brother breathing clay-
Ask the earth, on which we tread,
That silent empire of the dead;
Ask the sea-its thousand waves,
Living leap o'er countless graves.
Earth and ocean heed thee not;
Life is in their depths forgot.
Ask yon pale extended form,
Unconscious of the coming storm;
That breathed and spake an hour ago
Of heavenly bliss and penal woe:
Within your shrowded figure lies
The mystery of mysteries!

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO RICHBOROUGH

CASTLE.

BY G. R. CARTER.

THESE ruins, where the darkly winding

wave

Attunes its dirge-like music for the brave; These ruins, where the wild bird builds its nest,

Glitter'd of old with many a Roman crest; And here, when summer dews embalm the

ground,

The imaged coins of Cæsar's race are found; That race, whose eagles, with their wing unfurl'd,

Extended Roman sway o'er half the world; And boldly dared the billows' stormy foam, To make this isle their tributary home.