"Who calleth thee, my darling boy? What voice is in thine ear?" He answer'd not, but murmur'd on In words that none might hear; And still prolong'd the whispering tone, As if in fond reply To some dear object of delight That fix'd his dying eye. And then, with that confiding smile First by his Mother taught, When freely on her breast he laid His troubled infant thought, And meekly as a placid flower O'er which the dew-drops weep, He bow'd him on his painful bed, And slept the unbroken sleep. But if in yon immortal clime Where flows no parting tear, That root of earthly love may grow Which struck so deeply here, With what a tide of boundless bliss, A thrill of rapture wild, An angel mother in the skies, Must greet her cherub child. L. H. S. _Hartford, Conn._ For the Southern Literary Messenger. LETTERS FROM A SISTER. LETTER EIGHTH. Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of Paris--The Pont Neuf. PARIS, ----. _My dear Jane:_ "Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum. Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects. A mere trifle, having _novelty_ to recommend it, attracts their notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic temperament of our Islanders.