Mr Ehrenberg escaped from all his perils in time to share the rejoicings of the Texians at the final evacuation of the country by the Mexican army. And certainly they had cause for exultation, not only at being rid of their cruel and semi-barbarous oppressors, but in the persevering gallantry they had displayed throughout the whole campaign, during which many errors were committed and many lives uselessly sacrificed, but of which the close was nevertheless so glorious to those engaged in it. Unskilled in military tactics, without discipline or resources, the stubborn courage of a handful of American backwoodsmen proved an overmatch for Santa Anna and his hosts, and the fairest and freshest leaf of the Mexican cactus was rent from the parent stem, never to be reunited.[I] FOOTNOTES: [G] _Fahrten und Schicksale eines Deutschen in Texas._ Von H. EHRENBERG. Leipzig: 1845. [H] The founder of the American colonies in Texas, and father of Stephen F. Austin. [I] The arms of Mexico are a cactus, with as many leaves as there are states of the republic. THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CHILD. With ceaseless sorrow, uncontroll'd, The mother mourn'd her lot; She wept, and would not be consoled, Because her child was not. She gazed upon its nursery floor, But there it did not play; The toys it loved, the clothes it wore, All void and vacant lay. Her house, her heart, were dark and drear, Without their wonted light; The little star had left its sphere, That there had shone so bright. Her tears, at each returning thought, Fell like the frequent rain; Time on its wings no healing brought, And wisdom spoke in vain. Even in the middle hour of night She sought no soft relief, But, by her taper's misty light, Sate nourishing her grief. 'Twas then a sight of solemn awe, Rose near her like a cloud; The image of her child she saw, Wrapp'd in its little shroud. It sate within its favourite chair, It sate and seem'd to sigh, And turn'd upon its mother there A meek imploring eye. "O child! what brings that breathless form Back from its place of rest? For well I know no life can warm Again that livid breast. "The grave is now your bed, my child-- Go slumber there in peace." "I cannot go," it answer'd mild, "Until your sorrow cease. "I've tried to rest in that dark bed, But rest I cannot get, For always with the tears you shed, My winding-sheet is wet. "The drops, dear mother, trickle still Into my coffin deep; It feels so comfortless and chill I cannot go to sleep." "O child those words, that touching look, My fortitude restore; I feel and own the blest rebuke, And weep my loss no more."