There's not a flower on all the hills:-the frost is on the

pane :

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again :

I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high :

I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook 'll caw from the windy tall elm tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea;

And the swallow 'll come again with summer o'er the

wave,

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun 'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,

You'll never see me more in the long grey fields at night;

When from the dry, dark wold, the summer airs blow cool

On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,

And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you

pass,

With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant

grass.

I have been wild and wayward,—but you'll forgive me

now;

You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can,-I'll come again, mother, from out my restingplace;

Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face,

Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you

say,

And be often, often with you when you think I'm far

away.

Good night! Good night!-when I have said "good night" for evermore,

And you see me carried out from the threshold of the

door,

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing

green,

She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor;
Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden

more:

But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I

set

About the parlour-window, and the box of mignonette.

Good night, sweet mother :-call me before the day is born,

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year,—
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother
dear.

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am: And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!— To die before the snow-drop came,—and now the violet's here.

Oh sweet is the new violet that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,

And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,

And sweeter far is death than life;-to me that long to go.

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed

sun,

And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be

done!

But still I think it can't be long before I find release ;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!

Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him as he knelt beside my bed.

He showed me all the mercy,-for he taught me all the sin;

Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in:

Nor would I now be well,-mother,—again, if that could be,

For

my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl,-mother,—or the death

watch beat,

There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet :

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.—

All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call ;— It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ;

The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resign'd,

And

up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said,

For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,

And up the valley came again the music on the wind,

But you were sleeping: and I said, "It's not for them; it's mine!

And if it comes three times," I thought, "I take it for a sign."

And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to heaven, and die among the

stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed

away.―

Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a

glow;

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know: And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun :—
Forever and forever with those just souls and true-
And what is life, that we should moan why make we
such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home—

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come— To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breastAnd the "wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

By permission of Messrs Strahan & Co.

SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.

(CHARLES DICKENS.)

[PERSONS: Tony Weller, Father; Sam Weller, Son.]

["Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write.

"To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones, which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent."-Pickwick Papers.]

F. Vell, Sammy.

S. Vell, my Prooshan Blue (laying down his pen). What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law ?