The light bark Went smoothly with the tide, and floated on Till his dark eye was scarcely visible. On, and yet on, she bounded! The bright waves Seemed playful in their leaping joyousness, And the curled ripple feathered at the prow Like a glad thing of life. Had death grown slow? Or were the waters ‘stayed,’ that they should keep Their cold embraces from him? On, still on, With her quick undulations! Hope revived In the sick heart of Meina, and she rose To gaze more keenly forward. He was there, And his small arms were lifted; and she thought That, as he tossed them upward, she could hear A cadence of his sweet and silvery voice Like a delighted shouting. It died off, And then again she heard it. Was it joy That broke upon her ear? oh! was there joy In that long cry, thou mother? Hark to it! ’Tis like the arrowy piercing of the wind! He moveth, and she bade him to be still! He riseth! ’tis his boyish restlessness! Look, Meina! Does he dash his little hands, In mirth, upon the waters? Hark! once more! ‘Mother!’ He calls thee! Is thy child afraid? Again! How very fearfully it comes! ‘Help! Mother!’ ’Tis a cry of agony! He sinks! Fly! Fly! he calls to thee! Oh fly! ‘Mother!’ God help thee! Dost thou see him now? WAITING FOR THE HARVESTERS. And there she sat in ripened loveliness, An English mother; joying in her babes, Whose life was bright before her, and whose lips Were breaking into language, with the sweet And loving sentences they learn so soon. Her face was very beautiful, and mirth Was native on her lip; but ever now As a sweet tone delighted her, the smile Went melting into sadness, and the lash Drooped gently to her eye, as if it knew Affection was too chaste a thing for mirth. It was the time for harvest, and she sat Awaiting one. A breath of scented hay Was in the air, and from the distance came The noise of sickles, and the voices sent Out on the stillness of the quiet morn; And the low waters, coming like the strain Of a pervading melody, stole in, And made all music! ’Twas a holiness Of nature’s making, and I lifted up My heart to Heaven, and in my gladness prayed That if a heart were sad, or if a tear Were living upon earth, it might be theirs To go abroad in nature, and to see A mother and her gentle babes like these. FUGITIVE PIECES. THE SOLDIER’S WIDOW. Wo! for my vine-clad home! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree! That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!