Since the time of my mother's death, I never had passed the door of the chamber where she died, without thinking of the evening when I visited her corpse, alone--a pure boy, free from all vice, all contamination--and then drawing the comparison between the present and the past. Such reflections always gave me pain, and summoned up all the resolution I was master of. I am convinced, that, if I had had a mother until my mind had acquired strength and firmness, I should have been a better and a happier man. A father's love acts upon us later in life, but a mother leads us up to God. She bends and moulds our tender minds to her purposes so gently, that we are hardly aware of the pressure; but the father admires, and praises, and waters the more vigorous branches of our growth. Our reading, our studies, sermons, nature, observation, tend to give to the mother a poetical interest in our hearts, in after years, when she is dead. She is the nucleus about which gather some of the most beautiful associations of our manhood. When we ourselves have children, we find out what is the nature of parental affection, and we look back with regret that we did not know and estimate it better, so that the homage of our love might have been more devoted, for what is so worthy of being repaid. THE RED MAN. I LOVE the Indian. Ere the white man came, And taught him vice, and infamy, and shame, His soul was noble. In the sun he saw His God, and worshipped him with trembling awe. Though rude his life, his bosom never beat With polished vices, nor with dark deceit. A MOTHER'S GRIEF. A SKETCH FROM LIFE.--BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. I. TO mark, the sufferings of the babe That cannot speak its wo; To see the infant tears gush forth, Yet know not why they flow; To meet the meek, uplifted eye, That fain would ask relief, Yet can but tell of agony-- This is a mother's grief. II. Through dreary days and darker nights, To trace the march of death; To hear the faint and frequent sigh, The quick and shortened breath; To watch the last dread strife draw near, And pray that struggle brief, Though all be ended with the close-- This is a mother's grief. III. To see, in one short hour, decayed The hope of future years; To feel how vain a father's prayers, How vain a mother's tears: To think the cold grave now must close O'er what was once the chief Of all the treasured joys of earth-- This is a mother's grief. IV. Yet when the first wild throb is past Of anguish and despair, To lift the eye of faith to heaven, And think 'My child is there!' This best can dry the gushing tear, This yields the heart relief, Until the Christian's pious hope O'ercomes a mother's grief. EYES AND LIPS. FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A WESTERN BACHELOR.