MRS. MORRIS COLLINS,

Frail stranger at the gate of life,

Too weak to grasp its key,

O'er whom the Sun on car of gold

Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,

Unnoticed still by thee,—

To whom the toil of breath is new,

In this our vale of time

Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread

The grassy carpet round thee spread

At the soft, vernal prime,—

Deep sympathy and pitying care

Regard thy helpless moan,

And‘ neath thy forehead arching high

Methinks, the brightly opening eye

Doth search for something gone.

Yon slumberer‘ mid the snowy flowers,

With young, unfrosted hair,

Awakes not at the mournful sound

Of bird-like voices murmuring round

“Why sleeps our Mother there?”

Hers was that sunshine of the heart,

Which Home's fair region cheer'd,

Hers the upright, unselfish aim,

The fond response to duty's claim,

The faith that never fear'd.

Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark

O'er this our path below,

Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,

To ask the wherefore, or the why,

But drink our cup of woe.

So, in her shrouded beauty cold,

Yield to the earth its own,

Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,

Of that which may not turn to dust,

But dwells beside the Throne.