Years roll'd on, but the last one sped
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died;

And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my

cheek;

But I love, I love it! and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Eliza Cook

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

AD MATREM

OFT in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the cope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of grace.

Oh may they then, who crown thee with true bays,

Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!" Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshiped more!"

So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name. Julian Henry Fane

NATURE

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the

floor,