피

That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls

To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reached,
The earth's one sanctuary-and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swelled high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.
"Alas!" she cried,-

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing
So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still

Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy clouds fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child! Will He not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell! I go-my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks.

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.

A barque from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,

Had veil'd her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.

The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven,

And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.

We saw her proud flag struck that morn

A star once o'er the seas,

Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,

And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearls were sown ;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone.

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;

And gorgeous robes-but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.

And near him on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept-
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had pressed
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet long streamers hung
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,

Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet-eye-

He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony !

O human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu--

Surely thou hast another lot:

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea!

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land-
Light up the beacon pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast

And, hark! was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye-

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en, for the marriage altar crowned,
The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread !—
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

EVENING PRAYER,

AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

"Now in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.'
BERNARD BARTON.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed in night, in prayer.

Gaze on 'tis lovely! Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought!
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ?—
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As bird's with slumber's honey-dew opprest, Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe !

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, ol! to love through all things. Therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-Oh! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Il est dans la Nature d'aimer à se livrer à l'idée même qu'on redoute." Corinne.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,