... I THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. We're kneeling by thy grare, mother; the sun bai left it nov, Aed tinges with its yellow light yon glad hill'e verdant brow Where happy children spart and laugh,with whom we need to play Jutwemay notmingle wlthtlem noxsince thou wert borne away. Ve're driven from home, mother; the home we lov'd so well; Yfe wander hungry, homeless oft, while strangers In it dwell, And ...

... IFASHIONS F(It DECELU. I - FASHIO: F Ris m CraDles, Mout- Gauzes ConstantineAtUaJafaOles, DiiU -. selines Lujsa Fernanda, bareges Hayde'e, with organdyst tulles, &C. are the fashionable materials of fall dress; for walking and negligd plaids of every dimension, checked foulards, tafetas chinois in stripes or wares; 1affetai mauves shot with lilac, green to as shot with a different tint of ...

... POEMS and PICTURES, a Collection of Ballads, Songs, and other Poems, with one hundred Illustra- tions on wood, by English Artists. London: James Burns, Portman-street. FISHER'S DRAWING ROOM SCRAP BOOK, 1847; by the lIon. Mrs. Norton. London: Fisher, Son, and Co. FISHER'S JUVENILE SCRAP BOOK; by the author of the Women of England, &c. London: Fisher and Co. PUNCI'S POCKET BOOK. London: ...

... il ?? i ORIOIAL.) THE HILL OF DEATI. DY JOHS IALSAML. Outsttotch Ittho arms of my vision to scenes *fa brilliant hue, The poearly-wrought laud of my childhood, the mountains of life. giving dew; - The spiy-borne breeze of the east Is wafted along in Its air, While the bloom of the rose in its grandeur would ?? us that health must be thero. No darkening, pent up arena, no volumes of smoke do ...

... - i WOMAN'S LOT. OI say not woman's lot is bard, Her path a path of sorrow; To-day, perchance, some joy debarr'd May yield more joy to-morrow. It is not hard-it cannot be, To speak in tones of gladness, To hush the sigh of misery, And soothe the brow of sadness. It is not hard, sweet flowers to spread, To strew the path with roses, To smooth the couch, and rest the head, Where some loved ...

... | LORIGINAL.] SONNET.-BLACKPOOL. Blackpool I I love thy waving shores to trace, In that sweet hour when noon no longer glows, But dewy eve her lengthening shadow throws O'er all around me. Day, with gentle pace, Declining into night,--each distant place Seen Indistinctly, as the glimmering light Illumines, fitfully, thy cdiffy height, Shading Its outline with a softer grace. And ocean's gentle ...