The grave is but the mystic portal,
Which opes to endless woe or bliss ;
And thou must pass, deluded mortal,
To that or this.

I do believe despair is ending,

My soul's bewilder'd chaos gone;
The dove of heavenly peace descending
There broods alone.

I cannot speak, the rapture dawning
On more than midnight's deepest gloom!
I mount upon the wings of morning!
Beyond the tomb!

At thy decrees no longer railing,
Patience, O Lord! I ask alone;

And humbly cry, my guilt bewailing,
Thy will be done.

THE MOTHER.

See, to the last, last verge her infant steals."

Rogers.

THE MOTHER.

1.

'MID the wild cavern'd cliffs which darkly frown.
O'er the black torrent, raving hoarse below.
Dost mark that precipice! almost o'ergrown
With tangled shrubs and flowers that brightly
blow,

As loth the dangers of the gulph to show:
Dispersing gradual as its wreaths expand,
A silvery mist half veils the mountain's brow,
Which slopes with green turf to a level strand;
Close on whose dizzy brink two fearless persons
stand.

2.

A woman, blind and aged, (her weak frame,
How all unfit such toilsome steeps to dare!)
Who leans upon a youth, and seems to claim
His whole attention, as, with tender care,
He gently guides her to a rude bench there.
She turns to feel him present, leaves her seat,
And kneels in the meek attitude of prayer.
Approach but softly, and from yon retreat
We'll gaze-there not a glance our hidden forms
may greet.

3.

Look how he fondly presses to his heart
Her trembling hand, and gazes on her face.
Ah! how the tears of grateful rapture start,
And down his glowing cheek their channel trace.
"Twas on that mountain's strand, that very place,
The youth was then in helpless infancy,-

That the poor mother sought, with noiseless

pace,

Her own dear infant, whom her watchful eye
Beheld disporting there in wanton gaiety.