rble, and it mocks his trust,
But the immortal mind doth ever keep
The earnest impress of the moulding hand,
And bear it onward to a race unborn.
--That is his monument.

[1] The last words of Professor Olmsted.

HERBERT FOSS,

Only son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three
years and three months.

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,--
And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd
The ardent eye, devouring every word
Of his dear picture book. And then he spread
His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.
--The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy
To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;
And as they watch'd the smile of innocence
That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow
That Sabbath eve, they to each other said,
"_How beautiful._"
There was another scene,--
The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,
Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.
And many a one who on that coffin look'd
And went their way, in tender whisper said
"_How beautiful!_"
Oh parents, ye who sit
Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room,
What if the darling of your fondest care
Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?
--Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.
For we are dreamers all, and only those
Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land
Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon
To give it light, how sweet to hear your child
Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue.

His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite
book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and
almost without warning, he died.

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.

The year rolls round, and brings again
The bright, auspicious day,
The marriage scene, the festive cheer,
The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower
O'er youth's fair trellis wound,
And in that consecrated rite
Their full fruition found.

But One unseen amid the throng
Drew near with purpose fell,
And lo! the orange-flowers were changed
To mournful asphodel.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful
Her chosen lord beside,
But ere the sixth illumed the sky
She was that dread One's bride.

Yet call her not the bride of Death
Though in his bed she