The summer months swept by: again

That loving pair I met.

On russet heath, and bowery lane,
Th’autumnal sun had set:

And chill and damp that Sunday eve
Breath'd on the mourners' road

That bright-eyed little one to leave
Safe in the Saints' abode.

Behind, the guardian sister came,

Her bright brow dim and paleO cheer thee, maiden! in His Name, Who still'd Jairus' wail!

Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft
That held by thine so fast,

The fond appealing eye, full oft
Tow'rd thee for refuge cast.

Sweet toils, sweet cares, for ever gone!

No more from stranger's face

Or startling sound, the timid one

Shall hide in thine embrace.

Thy first glad earthly task is o'er,

And dreary seems thy way.

But what if nearer than before

She watch thee even to-day?

What if henceforth by heaven's decree
She leave thee not alone,

But in her turn prove guide to thee
In ways to Angels known?

O yield thee to her whisperings sweet: Away with thoughts of gloom!

In love the loving spirits greet,

Who wait to bless her tomb.

In loving hope with her unseen
Walk as in hallow'd air.

When foes are strong and trials keen,

Think, "What if she be there?"

9.

ORPHANHOOD.

"Behold thy Mother."

OFT have I watch'd thy trances light,
And longed for once to be

A partner in thy dream's delight,

And smile in sleep with thee;

To sport again, one little hour,

With the pure gales, that fan thy nursery bower,
And as of old undoubting upward spring,

Feeling the breath of heaven beneath my joyous wing.

But rather now with thee, dear child,

Fain would I lie awake,

For with no feverish care and wild

May thy clear bosom ache;

Thy woes go deep, but deeper far

The soothing power of yonder kindly star:
Thy first soft slumber on thy mother's breast

Was never half so sweet as now thy calm unrest.

Thy heart is sad to think upon

Thy mother far away,

Wondering perchance, now she is gone,

Who best for thee may pray.

In many a waking dream of love

Thou seest her yet upon her knees above:

The vows she breathed beside thee yesternight,

She breathes above thee now, winged with intenser might.

Both vespers soft and matins clear

For thee she duly pays,

Now as of old, and there as here;

Nor yet alone she prays.

Thy vision (whoso chides, may blame

The instinctive reachings of the Altar flame)—
Shows thee above, in yon ethereal air,

A holier Mother, rapt in more prevailing prayer.

'Tis she to whom thy heart took flight

Of old in joyous hour,

When first a precious sister spright

Came to thy nursery bower,

And thou with earnest tone didst say,

"Mother, let Mary be her name, I pray,

For dearly do I love to think upon

That gracious Mother-Maid, nursing her Holy One.”

Then in delight, as now in woe,
Thou to that home didst turn,
Where God, an Infant, dwelt below:
The thoughts that ache and burn

Nightly within thy bosom, find

A home in Nazareth to their own sweet mind.

More than all music are the soothings dear

Which meet thee at that door, and whisper, Christ is

here.