But why should grief be felt by me, For fear that others will not grieve? And what to others then will be A shade of life, that I may leave? Still, from their deep, mysterious spring Gush up these hot, resistless tears; Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing, Dost wear a smile that 's set for years. Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe From being every line of thee, The spirit, which thy prototype Enshrined, shall live eternally! THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON. She wrapped her in her sable cloak, And walked beside the sea; But seldom of her sorrow spoke,-- Too full of grief was she! 'T was this that made her heart so sad, To view the ocean wide: The only son, that widow had, Went out to sea and died. And then, in that great, rolling deep, With solemn, tearful eyes, His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep Till all the dead shall rise. But where, among those waters vast, With ceaseless fall and swell, Her child to that repose had passed, The mother none could tell. She therefore questioned wave on wave, As up they heaved to shore, If they had rolled across his grave, Whom she must see no more. And often, when she marked a ship With full, returning sail, The color would forsake her lip, And speech and vision fail. For, O! she thought about the one That spread its canvass white, To waft away her only son Forever from her sight! But still, amid the bitter grief Which wrung that widow's heart, Her spirit felt the sweet relief That faith and hope impart. She knew her son had ever kept The path to heavenly rest-- That, when he sank in death, he slept Upon a Saviour's breast. "My heavenly Father," she would say, "I know the troubled sea But holds from me the precious clay: My child 's at home with thee!" THE YOUNG MOTHER. Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept; But still the young mother sat by it and wept: She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song, The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong. The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm, That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o'er its form; Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed, And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled. She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest, Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast; She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath: She knew that her little one slumbered in death!