The Motherless.

I NEVER knew what 't was to have
A mother kind and good,

To cheer me when I would be grave,
And chide me when I'm rude;

I never felt upon my cheek
Her soft and gentle kiss,

And never, never heard her speak
In tones of tenderness.

She never comes at morning light,
To hear my waking sound,
Nor, when I lay me down at night,
To close the curtains round.
She is not near me when I play
Amid the open air,

Nor when I kneel me down to pray

Beside my little chair.

I'm sure that I would like to sit

All day beside her seat,

And watch her fingers, as they knit

A stocking for my feet.

And then, perhaps, she 'd read to me

From out some pretty book,

I'm sure I should be full of glee

To see her pleasant look.

I see the other girls around
A mother's fondness prove,
But I have never heard the sound

Of a fond mother's love.

I cannot think what I have done, –

I've always spoken true,— Why can't I with the others run And kiss a mother too?

In yonder quiet burial-ground, -
Just by that willow-tree, -

There riseth up as green a mound
As you could wish to see.

A tall white stone is at its head,
A small one at the foot,

And violets, and roses red,

And pinks, have there been put.

One day I wandered there alone,

I know not how or why,

And leaned against that tallest stone,

"T was twice as tall as I. Some letters were upon its face;

I saw them as I stood,

And thought it would be nice to trace Their meaning, if I could.

My teacher's premium,

She gave it me when I was sad,
And crying o'er a sum.

Then spelled I with my silver pen
The words "In Memory;"

Then came a little "of," and then
My own name, "Mary Lee!"

I put my hand upon my head

To think what it could mean, I knew I never had been dead And come to life again.

"T was long before I understood
The words which I had read,
And then an overwhelming filcod
Of burning tears I shed.

Now, daily, when the sun hath gone,
And from my task I'm free,
I wander there, and sit alone
Beneath the willow-tree.

With many tears, amid my prayer,
That tall white stone I lave,

For I suppose it rises there
To mark my mother's grave.

J. L. CHESTER.

The Harmony of Nature.

THERE is a soothing harmony
Among the whispering trees,
There is a joyous melody,

Which floats upon the breeze.

It comes to us from every spray,
Where the jocund songsters sing;
We feel it where the insects play,

And midst the flowers of spring.

The gentle cooing of the dove
Has power to lull to rest

The yearnings after human love,
Which fill the human breast.

The soaring lark's triumphant song
Raises our hearts on high;

And, while we gaze on him, we long
For heavenly melody.

Can we behold earth's mantle green,
And the blue sky above,

And not confess, midst every scene,

The Lord our God is love!

ANONYMOUS.

The Heart's Guests.

WHEN age has cast its shadows
O'er life's declining way,
When evening twilight gathers
Round our retiring day, -
Then shall we sit and ponder
On the dim and shadowy past,
In the heart's silent chamber,
The guests will gather fast.

Guests that in youth we cherished,
Shall come to us once more,
And we shall hold communion
As in the days before.

They may be dark and sombre,

They may be bright and fair, But the heart will have its chamber, The guests will gather there.

How shall it be, my sisters?

Who shall be our hearts' guests?

How shall it be, my brothers,
When life's shadow on us rests?

Shall we not 'mid the silence

Hear voices sweet and low, Speak the old familiar language, The words of long ago?