’Tis said that the lady met him, When many years had past, And kissing his lips, released him From the burden of life at last. * * * * * THE YOUNG MOTHER’S LAMENT. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. Oh, what is all this world to me, Now that my babe is gone— From every thing I hear, or see, The light of life has flown! It is not summer to my eyes, For summer’s sun is hid— He, who made fair the earth and skies, Sleeps ’neath a coffin-lid. There is no verdure to be seen— No flowers upon the lea; For he, whose smile made all things green, Hath no more smiles for me. Now all things wear the sickly-hue Of my own spirit sad, And nothing can that charm renew Which made the earth look glad. Oh, he was such a lovely boy— So innocent, so fair; His every look so full of joy— Such sunlight in his hair! That when he nestled to my breast, And looked up lovingly, I thought no mother half so blest In all the world as I. But now, alas! since he has died, All day and night I pine, And never was a heart beside So desolate as mine. Here are the toys his little hands So sportively did use, And here his empty cradle stands, And here his tiny shoes: Oh, take them, take them from my sight! Each sends a cruel dart— Sharpened by fatal memories bright— Into my bleeding heart. Take all away, since _he_ is gone— Save one of his fair curls, And that shall on my breast be worn, Set round with costly pearls. But, like the diamond glistening bright Upon a withered wreath, ’Twill make more dreary by its light The wasted heart beneath. * * * * * [Illustration: _Jenny Lind_ (IN LA SONNAMBULA) Engraved in London for Graham’s Magazine by W. H. Mote after the original Painting by J. W. Wright] * * * * * JENNY LIND. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. [WITH A PORTRAIT.]