“Father, I can remember when I first observed her sunken eye, And her pale, hollow cheek; and then I told my brother she would die! “And the next morn they did not speak, But led us to her silent bed; They bade us kiss her icy cheek, And told us she indeed was dead! “Oh, then I thought how she was kind, My own beloved and gentle mother! And calling all I knew to mind, I thought there ne’er was such another! “Poor little Charles, and I! that day We sate within our silent room; But we could neither read nor play,-- The very walls seemed full of gloom. “I wish my mother had not died, We never have been glad since then! They say, and is it true,” she cried, “That she can never come again?” The father checked his tears, and thus He spake, “My child, they do not err, Who say she cannot come to us; But you and I may go to her. “Remember your dear mother still, And the pure precepts she has given; Like her, be humble, free from ill, And you shall see her face in heaven!” THE SOLDIER’S STORY. “Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said, “I hear their distant drumming,-- Young Arthur Bruce is at their head, And down the street they’re coming. “And a very noble standard too He carries in the van; By the faith of an old soldier, he Is born to make a man!” A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek, A tear came to his eye; “Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!” Cried he, as they came nigh. “It seems to me but yesterday Since I was one like ye, And now my years are seventy-two,-- Come here, and talk with me!” They made a halt, those merry boys, Before the aged man; And “tell us now some story wild,” Young Arthur Bruce began; “Of battle and of victory Tell us some stirring thing!” The old man raised his arm aloft, And cried, “God save the King! “A soldier’s is a life of fame, A life that hath its meed-- They write his wars in printed books, That every man may read. “And if you’d hear a story wild, Of war and battle done, I am the man to tell such tales, And you shall now have one. “In every quarter of the globe I’ve fought--by sea, by land; And scarce for five and fifty years Was the musket from my hand. “But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too, That were waged on any shore, Were those in which my strength were spent, In the country of Mysore. “And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime Is that of the Indian land, Where the burning sun shines fiercely down On the hot and fiery sand! “The life of man seems little worth, And his arm hath little power His very soul within him dies, As dies a broken flower.