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, 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, Impressed the solemn pomp of wo But nature's grief, so oft unknown 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 As in the drear and darkened vault And wildly mid the stranger shade 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, And wistful on his mother's face Was fixed that fair child's eye, While tear-drops o'er his glowing cheek For sympathy's o'erwhelming sob Awoke his bosom's strife, And wondering sorrow strongly stirred 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. 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, Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, |