KEEPSAKES.

Shepherd.-Few things in this weary warld sae delichtfu' as keepsakes! Nor do they ever, to my heart at least, nor to my een, ever lose their tender, their powerful charm!

North. Of all keepsakes, memorials, relics, most tenderly, most dearly, most devoutly, James, do I love a little lock of hair!—and, oh! when the head it beautified has long mouldered in the dust, how spiritual seems the undying glossiness of the sole remaining ringlet! All else gone to nothing—save and except that soft, smooth, burnished, golden, and glorious fragment of the apparelling that once hung in clouds and sunshine over an angel's brow.

Shepherd.-Ay, Sir; a lock o' hair, I agree wi’ you, is far better than ony pictur. It's a pairt o' the beloved object hersell-it belanged to the tresses that aften, lang, lang ago, may hae a' been suddenly dishevelled, like a shower o' sunbeams, ower your

beatin' breast!

But noo solemn thochts sadden the

beauty ance sae bricht-sae refulgent—the langer you gaze on't, the mair and mair pensive grows the expression of the holy relic-it seems to say, almost upbraidingly, "Weep'st thou no more for me?" and then, indeed, a tear, true to the imperishable affection in which all nature seemed to rejoice, "when life itself was young," bears witness that the object towards which it yearned is no more forgotten, now that she has been dead for so many long weary years, than she was forgotten during an hour of absence, that came like a passing cloud between us and the sunshine of her living, her loving smiles.

Noctes Ambrosianæ, from Blackwood's Magazine.

THE filial band by which nature binds a man to his aged parent should only be severed by death. Like the white wand of Garter King at Arms, it should never be broken until it is dropped into the grave, upon the hollow-sounding coffin lid of its monarch.

Anonymous.

FAREWELL BEQUESTS.

ERE the last fleeting ties of life are broken,
While those I love around me weeping stand,
Let me dispense to each some parting token
Of one fast hastening to the spirit land.
Language and gifts but feebly can impart
The deep affection of my ardent heart;
Yet, dearest friends, these last memorials take,
And prize them for my sake.

Father thy high and stainless reputation

By the pure diamond well may imaged be— Accept this ring-see how its radiation

Casts round its neighbourhood a brilliancy. Within thy home I thus have honour'd dwelt, And when the world has praised me, I have felt That in its homage I should not partake,

Mother-this locket thou wilt fondly cherish,
Not for its outward shrine of gold and pearls,
It guards a part of me that need not perish,

One of my lavish store of auburn curls;
Methinks I could not to thy share assign
Aught that appear'd so fully, truly, mine—
This relic of thy grateful daughter take,
And wear it for her sake.

Sister-receive this lute-its sprightly numbers
Once gaily sounded by our joyous hearth.
But when thou see'st me laid in death's cold slumbers,
Touch it no more to songs of festal mirth;

Sing of the meetings of fond friends above,
Sing of God's wondrous grace and pardoning love,
These holy strains at peaceful evening wake
For thy poor sister's sake.

Brother-my little brother-thou hast tended
Often with me my greenhouse plants and flowers;
Take their sole charge-they safely are defended

By fostering walls from sudden blights and showers: Thus is thy childhood in its tender bloom

Train'd with fond care, and kept from storm and gloom, Dear child, improvement daily strive to make,

For thy kind parents' sake.

I seek in vain one absent, erring brother,

Alas, he wanders on a foreign sod;

Yet when thou next shalt see him, give him, mother,
This sacred volume-'tis the word of God:

Tell him his sister ask'd, in constant prayer,
That he in its blest promises might share,
Bid him from sin's delusive trance awake,
For his soul's precious sake.

Loved ones-why gaze upon these gifts with sadness?
My worldly wants and wishes are at rest.
Dost thou not know I go in trusting gladness
To take possession of a vast bequest?

That heritage was by my Saviour given,
When He descended from His throne in heaven,
Sorrow and suffering on Himself to take,

For man's poor sinful sake.

Not mine alone those treasures of salvation,

The precious boon extends, dear friend, to thee: Then mourn not for our transient separation,

But, when I leave thee, think and speak of me, As of a freed one mounting to the skies, Call'd from the world of snares and vanities,

Her place amid the blessed saints to take,

For her Redeemer's sake.

Mrs. Abdy.