She gazes upon him—her idol, her joy, The hope of her bosom—her sunny-haired boy, And feels the whole world in its domain so wide, Hath nought in its gift, like her darling, her pride. She thinks of the days when a glad little child, Her heart, as her baby’s, was playfully wild— Of her own watchful mother—her blessing, her prayer, Who guarded those days from the footsteps of care. Her far smiling home rises full on her view, When she—like a blossom of summer growth, grew, The fields where she roved in her innocent mirth, And her indoor enjoyments around the old hearth. Those days have departed—their sunlight has fled, And pale is the ray that gleams over the dead; The stateliest tree may be felled to the ground, And its branches unguarded, be scatter’d around. Her household is broken—her father no more Recounts to his children the bright days of yore; ’Tis broken and dreary—her fond mother lies Encircled by earth, and watch’d o’er by the skies. She sees the old grave-yard—each white gleaming tomb, And the forms that are slumbering in darkness and gloom, And a tear of remembrance, and sadden’d regret She sheds for the homestead she ne’er can forget. These dreamings are casting their shadows e’en now, And dimming the gladness that erst deck’d her brow— Her heart wanders back—when to all things beside She was like her own baby—a dear mother’s pride. * * * * * WORTH AND WEALTH, OR THE CHOICE OF A WIFE. BY ELLEN ASHTON. “And so you intend to marry Lucy Warden—eh! Harry. What on earth has put you in such a notion of that girl?” said Charles Lowry, to his friend Henry Bowen, as they sat together, cracking almonds after dinner. “And why not marry Lucy Warden?” quietly said his friend. “Why? oh! because she’s not worth a sous; and besides I’ve heard she’s the daughter of a brick-layer. You know, any how, that her mother kept a little retail dry-goods store until an uncle left Mrs. Warden that annuity on which they now just manage to subsist.”