’Twas to this calm and beautiful retreat, With wildly throbbing heart and trembling feet, The Hebrew Mother came. To her sad breast, Her youngest hope, a lovely boy, she prest,— He whom a tyrant’s voice had doomed to die! With anguish-riven soul and tearful eye, She looked on his bright cheek and cherub smile, Then gently hushed him to repose; and while Within his fragile barque she laid him, gazed Her last upon the sleeping babe! then raised To the Almighty one a fervent prayer, Confiding her soul’s treasure to his care: Then, as with firmer step she homeward trod, With faith renewed, she left him to his God! BLOWING BUBBLES. It was a lovely picture! A young boy, Of scarce five summers, on a terrace stood, Which overlooked a region of sweet flowers, As fresh and blooming as his own bright cheeks; While from a pipe, wiled from his ancient nurse With many a kiss, the rosy urchin blew Those air-created globes, which, as they soared Through the blue space, caught the gay tints of morn. Buoyant and bright as youthful hopes they seemed, And radiant as those visioned forms of bliss That hover in the dreams of innocence. I watched the rapturous gaze of that young boy, And heard his joyous shout, as rising high Upon the breeze, those fragile orbs were borne. But when they sank, and vanished from his view, A cloud of sadness came o’er his fair brow. This picture read a lesson to my heart. Oh—how like these, thought I, are half the hopes And pleasures of this life. No sooner do They smile upon our view—than they are gone! NEW YEAR WISH. TO ANNA MARIA, AGED FIVE YEARS. Dear one, while bending o’er thy couch of rest, I’ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping, And wished—Oh! couldst thou ever be as blest As now—when haply all thy cause of weeping Is, for a truant bird, or faded rose; Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear, They cast no shadow o’er thy soft repose, No trace of care, or sorrow, lingers here. With rosy cheek, upon the pillow prest, To me thou seemest a cherub, pure and fair, With thy sweet smile, and gently heaving breast, And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair; What shall I wish thee, little one? Smile on Through childhood’s morn—through life’s gay spring— For oh—too soon will those bright hours be gone! In youth time flies upon a silken wing.