For O! the love of mother who can tell."
And so the steward gallop'd back in haste,
To seek the lost one in the desert waste.

At last the spring rose in the distant sand,
With its close verdure pleasant to the eye,
And there, as, nearing it, the place he scann'd,
He saw the mother with her infant lie,
Quiet and stilly on each other's breast,
Folded together in unbroken rest;

Her arms around it thrown, that e'en in sleep
Still press'd the infant to her stricken heart,
No rest so perfect, no repose so deep,
From her sweet babe the mother's love to part.
Before him loud and bitter curses sped--
Who heard him?--for the mother too lay dead.





SONNET.

DATUR HORA QUIETI.


The sun is slowly sinking in the West;
The plough lies idle, and the weary team,
Cool'd with the freshness of the shallow stream,