The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there. And must I turn away? Hark, hark!--it is my mother's voice I hear, Sadder than once it seem'd--yet soft and clear-- Doth she not seem to pray? My name!--I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love--the deep, the mild-- Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child, Take back the Lost and Found! _Blackwood's Magazine._ * * * * * [Illustration: AUBERGE ON THE GRIMSEL.] AUBERGE ON THE GRIMSEL. (_For the Mirror._) The Grimsel is one of the stupendous mountains of Switzerland, 5,220 feet in height, as marked on Keller's admirable map of that country. It is situated within the Canton of Berne, but bordering on that of the Valais, and not far from Uri. The auberge represented in the sketch, although not quite upon the very summit of the mountain, is almost above the limit of vegetation, and far remote from any other dwelling. Indeed, excepting a few _chalets_, used as summer shelter for the attendants upon the mountain cattle, but deserted in winter, there is no human habitation for many miles round; and it is one of the very few spots where the traveller has an opportunity of reposing for the night, under a comfortable roof, in so lofty a region of the atmosphere, amidst scenes of Alpine desolation--or rather, the primitive elements of Nature, "the naked bones of the earth waiting to be clothed."