“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone— What shalt thou do, poor weeper? Oh human love! oh human wo! Is there a pang yet deeper?” MARY HOWITT. Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last! We catch with joy that quiet breathing, Her first dark day of wo hath passed, A happier dream her soul is wreathing. Hush! hush! around her curtained bed, Perchance with love there glides another! We cannot hear that spirit-tread— Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!” But four bright summers o’er her head Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing, And yet she mourneth for the dead With anguish to our souls distressing. All day by every wile we’ve sought From sorrow’s stern control to lure her, Her mind to win from painful thought, Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer. With feeling far beyond her years, We tried in vain her grief to smother, For still burst forth those burning tears, With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!” And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight, She coldly turned from game and story, We told her of the spirit’s flight To realms of endless light and glory. That vision of a clime so rare, Brought out this thought anew to grieve her, E’en for a home so wondrous fair, Could one who _loved her well_ thus leave her? We strove in vain to lull her fears; We sought in vain such doubts to smother, More wildly came those bitter tears, And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!” It ceased at length—those weary eyes We marked with languor faintly closing, And now on yonder couch she lies, In slumber deep and sweet reposing. Hush! hush! around her curtained bed, Perchance with love there glides another! We cannot hear that spirit-tread— But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!” * * * * * ALICE LISLE. A SKETCH FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.