THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

REST, pilgrim, rest!-thou 'rt from the Syrian land,
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east, I know
By the long-wither'd palm branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne !
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return!

Thou 'rt faint

stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the breeze, The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past,

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas.

Thou art faint and worn
By the grey pillars of yon ruin'd shrine?

hear'st thou the fountain welling

Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?

- He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine!

He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood's time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,

Beneath its shade-the convent's vesper-chime.
And sit thou there! -for he was gentle ever,
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' fever
There in his place thou 'rt resting-where is he?

If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again! - how oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember'd strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!-
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen
In that fair land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth-my Guido-with the fiery mien
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?

The dark, clear, lightning eye!-on heaven and earth
It smiled -as if man were not dust it smiled!
The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth,

And I—my heart grew young before my child!
My bless'd child! I had but him

yet he

Fill'd all my home even with o'erflowing joy,

Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep freeWhere is he now ?-my pride, my flower, my boy!

His sunny childhood melted from my sight,

Like a spring dew drop then his forehead wore

I knew these woods might be his world no more!

He loved me but he left me!-thus they go

Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored! He heard the trumpet of the Red-Cross blow, And bounded from with his father's sword!

Thou weep'st! I tremble - thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair,

With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain

Where hosts have met-speak! answer!- was he there?

Oh! hath his smile departed?-- Could the grave

Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave —

That look gives hope-I knew it could not be !

Still weep'st thou, wanderer?

some fond mother's glance

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,

Bathed all thy faded hair, with parting tears? Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! what art thou?

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? Look up!-oh! is it—that wan cheek and brow! Is italas! yet joy!-my son, my son!

CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on- - he would not go

Without his Father's word;

That Father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud: -"Say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And look'd from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My Father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound -
The boy-oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea!

With mast and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had bore their part —

But the noblest thing which perish'd there
Was that young faithful heart!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple service:- - by the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest:
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd 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 linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls