"After playing a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my mother 'good night;' but when alone in my room, in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her faint voice trembled, when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could not sleep; and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just sunk into an uneasy slumber; and they told me I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what troubled me; but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct. "The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's room. "She was dead! She never spoke to me more--never smiled upon me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought then I wished I could die, and be buried with her; and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will 'bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.'" Near this beautiful fragment, in the time-honored receptacle of literary 'things lost upon earth' to which we have alluded, we find a kindred specimen, in the affecting 'Lines written by an East-India Officer on his Return from India.' They are as old as the hills, and as lasting; and we still sympathize as deeply and sincerely with the ----'Stranger in a stranger clime, Where stranger voices mock his ear,' as when we first read of his desolation of heart, we know not how many years ago. There is a melting tenderness in his musings, amid the sights and sounds now strange to his eye and ear, and among the graves of the friends of his youth, who have long since been 'followed to the house of mourning, and forgotten in the dust,' which is to us irresistibly touching. We feel the holy sadness of his blighted affection, when he wakes from dreams of departed years, and the loved ones who blessed his childhood--dreams which come to him in a sleep finally won to his bed in the late and troubled night-watches--and in alternate joy and bitterness of soul, exclaims: 'I see each shade all silvery white, I hear each spirit's melting sigh; I turn to clasp those forms of light, And the pale morning chills mine eye!'