This was a mother's parting with her child,

A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smil'd, And wooed her with a voice of love away

From childhood's home; yet there, with fond delay She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note

Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float, And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day, As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heav'd in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home: thro' stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd,

And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world That glows along the West: the sails were furl'd

In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride

Look'd on the home that promis'd hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come.-Alas! we trace

The

map of our own paths, and long ere years With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears. That home was darken'd soon: the summer breeze Welcom❜d with death the wanderers from the seas, Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn! To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn,

Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,

Her bosom's first belov'd, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side,

By the close veil of misery!-Oh! but ill,

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young

high heart

Bears its first blow!-it knows not yet the part

Which life will teach-to suffer and be still,

And with submissive love to count the flowers

Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours
To send no busy dream!-She had not learn'd
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd,
In weariness from life: then came th' unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps; until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft

Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers ?-Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was rais'd?—did strangers shed

The kindly tears which bath'd that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow?

Something was there, that thro' the lingering night
Outwatches patiently the taper's light,

Something that faints not thro' the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness;

Love, true and perfect love!-- Whence came that power,
Uprearing thro' the storm the drooping flower?
Whence ?-who can ask?-the wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!—and had she come,
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home,
To save her child?—Ev'n so-nor yet in vain :
In that young heart a light sprung up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, tho' faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother, gentlest mother! can it be?"
The lorn one cried, “ and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore,
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

"This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned back, and displayed the statue of his Queen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance-not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the King brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."-SHERER's Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.