BURIAL OF THE EMIGRANT'S BABE.

"Near the Catholic cemetery, about three miles from the city of New York, I met one of the most singular and affecting funeral processions, which it has ever been my fortune to witness. It was a lone mother, with her little boy by her side, and the coffin containing the body of her dead infant in her arms. She was a German, and could speak but a few words of English. She presented a paper, which contained the regular order necessary for every interment in the public vault of the Roman Catholic cemetery. But had she been ever so skilled in our language, it was evident that she had that grief within, which does not speak. Her eyes filled, and sobs choked her utterance as she said, 'I lost meine baby-four week.”

WILLIAM L. STONE.

I MUSED amid the place of graves,
When the brief autumn day,

With its hoarse minstrelsy of storms,

Sank to its rest away.

The long grass gave a rustling sound,
As to the mourner's tread,

And lo! a lonely woman came,
The bearer of her dead.

No stately hearse, or sable pall,
Or tall plumes waving high.
Impressed the solemn pomp of wo

Upon the passer-by;

But nature's grief, so oft unknown
Beside the proud man's bier,
Where long processions slowly move,
Spake forth, resistless, here.

No foot of neighbour, or of friend,
In pitying love drew nigh,

Nor the sweet German dirge breathed out,
As 'neath her native sky,

To bless the clay that came to sleep
Within the hallowed sod,

And emulate that triumph strain

Which gives the soul to God.

Poor babe! that grieving breast, from whence Thy transient life-stream flowed,

Doth press the coffin, as it goes

On to the last abode;

Those patient arms that sheltered the e,

With many a tender prayer,

In sad reluctance yield thee back
To earth, thy mother's care.

80 BURIAL OF THE EMIGRANT'S BABE.

No priestly hand the immortal scroll

Of heavenly hope displayed,

As in the drear and darkened vault
Her infant gem she laid;

And wildly mid the stranger shade

Of that sequestered dell,

The lofty language of the Rhine
In troubled cadence fell.

But grasping fast the mourner's skirts,
In wonder and in fear,

A boy, who thrice the spring had seen,
Stood all unnoticed near;

And wistful on his mother's face
Was fixed that fair child's eye,
While tear-drops o'er his glowing cheek
Gushed forth, he knew not why.

For sympathy's o'erwhelming sob
Awoke his bosom's strife,

And wondering sorrow strongly stirred
The new-born fount of life;-

Yea, still that trace of wo must gleam
From life's unwritten page,
Though memory's casket he should search
With the dim eye of age.

But with so strong and deep a power That lonely funeral stole

Among the pictured scenes that dwell

For ever in the soul,

That often, when I wander near,

And sad winds moaning low, Starting, I seem once more to hear That wailing mother's wo.

8

SONNET

BY W. ROSCOE, ON BEING FORCED TO PART WITH HIS LIBRARY FOR THE BENEFIT OF HIS CREDITORS.

As one who destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again ere-while
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart,—
Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder art!

Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you; nor with fainting heart-
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowships restore;
When freed from earth, unlimited its powers,

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.