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THE YOUTH’S CABINET.

 

The Nature of Earthly Attachments.

BY J. P. M’CORD.

 

 

There’s not a tie that binds the heart,
If round a mortal shape it cling,

But will, at times, a pang impart—
But will, at last, the bosom wring.

Our love goes out to various forms,

That share with us this beauteous sphere ;
While thus some soft endearment warms,

It lends a charm to being here.

The few whose smiles return our own,

The souls with kindred feelings twined,
Are not the gifts of Heaven alone,

That weave enchantments round the mind.

The birds that nestle near our door,

That glean their food around our board,
And all day long, their music pour,

Have power to thrill a tender chord.

We draw delight from vocal bowers ;

We praise their sweets, we love their shade ;
Nor can our memory lose the hours,

When in our native walks we strayed.

If, far removed, our thoughts return,
Those cherished walks to trace anew,
As former pleasures rise and burn,
We feel the pains of absence too,

While from our side we miss the loved
Who trod with us the smiling green,
'Tis but a grief too often proved,
That this is all a changeful scene.

The warblers cease—the blossoms fade—
All nature in her season dies ;

So transient mortals sink to shade,
And leave the world to fruitless sighs.

There's not a tie that binds the heart,
If round a form of time it cling,
But forces oft a tear to start,
Or will at last the bosom wring.

Yet ties there are which cannot fail,
Sweet memories which forever glow,
A love, when fairer climes we hail,

Which shall with endless raptures flow.

The Mother’s Last Lesson.
“ ULL you please teach me my

verse, Mamma, and then

kiss me, and bid me good

night?” said little Roger
L——., as he opened the door and peeped
cautiously into the chamber of his sick
mother; “I am very sleepy, but no one
has heard me say my prayers.”

Mrs. L—— was very ill—indeed her
attendants believed her to be dying. She
sat propped up with her pillows, and
struggling for breath : her lips were white :
her eyes were growing dull and glazed.
She was a widow, and little Roger was
her only—her darling child. Every night
he had been in the habit of coming intc
her room, and sitting in her lap, or kneel-
ing by her side, whilst she repeated pas-
sages from God’s holy word, or related to
him stories of the wise and good men
spoken of in its pages.

“Hush! hush!” said a lady who was
watching beside her couch. “ Your dear
mother is too ill to hear you to-night!”
As she said this, she came forward, and
laid her hand gently upon his arm, as if
she would lead him from the room. Roger
began to sob as if his little heart would
break.

“T cannot go to bed without saying my
prayers—indeed I cannot.”

The ear of the dying mother caught
the sound. Although she had been nearly
insensible to everything transpiring around
her, the sobs of her darling aroused her
stupor, and turning to a friend, she de-
sired her to bring her little son and lay
him on her bosom. Her request was
granted, and the child’s rosy cheek, and
golden head nestled beside the pale, cold
face of the dying mother.