It is a call for Heaven to hear'.
Maternal fondness sends above
A voice, that in her Father's ear'
Shall enter quick', for God is love.
In such a moment, hands like these'
Their Maker', with their offering', sees;
And for the faith of such a breast'
He will the blow of death arrest!
The moon looks pale from out the cloud',
While Mercy's angel takes the form
Of him', who, mounted on the shroud',
Was first to see the coming storm.
The SAILOR has a ready arm
To bring relief', and cope with harm.
Though rough his hând, and nerved with steel',
His heart' is warm and quick to feel.
And see him, as he braves the frown',
That sky and sea each other give'!
Behold him, where he plunges down',
That child and mother yet may live',
And plucks them from a closing grave'!—
They're saved! they're saved! the maddened wave'
Leaps foaming up to find its prey'
Snatched from its mouth and borne away.
They're saved! they're saved! but where is he',
Who lulled his fearless babe to sleep'?
A floating plank on that wild sea'
Has now his vital spark to keep'!
But, by the wan, affrighted moon',
Help comes to him'; and he is soon'
Upon the deck with living men'
To clasp that smiling boy again.
And now can He, who only knows
Each human breast', behold, alone', What pure and grateful incense goes'
From that sad wreck to his high throne.
The twain, whose hearts are truly one',
Will early teach their prattling son'
Upon his little heart to bear'
The SAILOR to his God', in prayer':—
'Oh, Thou, who in thy hand dost hold'
The winds and waves, that wake or sleep',
Thy tender arms of mercy fold'
Around the seamen on the deep!
And, when their voyage of life is o'er',
May they be welcomed to the shore'
Whose peaceful streets with gold are paved';-
And angels sing', "They're saved'! they're saved!""
WE come! we come! and ye feel our might',
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight';
And over the mountains, and over the deep',
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep'
Like the spirit of liberty', wild and free',
And ye look on our works, and own 'tis wē;
Ye call us the Winds'; but can ye tell'
Whither we go', or where we dwell' ?
Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power',
And fell the forests', or fan the flower',
When the hare-bell moves', and the rush is bent',
When the tower's o'erthrown', and the oak is rent',
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave',
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave`;
And ye say it is wē! but can ye trace'
The wandering winds to their secret place'?
And whether our breath be loud and high',
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh',
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear',
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear'
With music aerial', still, 'tis wē.
And ye list', and ye look'; but what do you see'?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace'?
Or waken one note, when our numbers cease'?
Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand';
We come and we go at his command.
Though joy', or sorrow', may mark our track',
His will is our guide', and we look not back':
And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away',
Or win us in gentle airs to play',
Then, lift up your hearts to him who binds',
Or frees', as he will', the obedient Winds!
WIT was fairly tired of play`;
And the little archer lay
On a grassy bank, one day',
By a gurgling river.
Here, he thought he'd take a nap',
And, to guard them from mishap',
In his mantle he would wrap
His golden bow and quiver.
Scarce a moment had he slept',
Ere upon his finger stepped
Some one', who was no adept
In the art of creeping.
Wit was ever quick to feel;
Soon he knew the heavy heel-
Folly came his bow to steal',
While he thought him sleeping.
He arose'; and, "now," said he',
"Let my bow and arrows bē,
Till their use you learn of mē,
Folly', I beseech you!
But, if you would know my art',
And be skillful with the dart',
Let's a moment stand apart',
So that I may teach you."
Folly moved a pace or two`;
Wit took aim, and quickly drew'—
"Whiz'!" the arrow went', and flew',
Fastening in his shoulder.
"Oh!" cried Folly', "Oh! I'm dead`!
Wounded both in heart and head'!".
"You will live'," Wit smiling said`,
"To be ages older.
"Banish every vain alarm`;
You receive no other harm
Than a useless', palsied arm',
For an hour of fooling.
Hence, of that right hand bereft',
Folly', you must use your left',
A memento of your theft',
And my timely schooling!"
Wisdom saw the war begin
"Twixt the two so near akin',
And she would, by stepping in',
Fain have made them wiser.
But, she was repelled by both',
Who', alike incensed and loth
To be tutored', took an oath'
Ever to despise her.
PROPITIOUS Power, when rankling cares annoy
The sacred home of Hymenean joy';
When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell',
The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell'
Unpitied by the world', unknown to fame',
Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same'
Oh there, prophetic Hope', thy smile bestow',
And chase the pangs that worth should never know`-
There, as the parent deals his scanty store
To friendless babes', and weeps to give no more',
Tell', that his manly race shall yet assuage
Their father's wrongs', and shield his later age.
What though for him no Hybla sweets distill',
Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill';
Tell', that when silent years have passed away',
That when his eyes grow dim', his tresses gray',
These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,
And deck with fairer flowers his little field',
And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath`;
Tell', that while Love's spontaneous smile endears
The days of peace', the Sabbath of his years',
Health shall prolong, to many a festive hour,
The social pleasures of his humble power.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps',
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps';
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies',
Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes',
And weaves a song of melancholy joy-
Sleep, image of thy father', sleep', my boy':
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thinè;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine';
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall bé
In form and soul'; but, ah! more blest than he',
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last',
Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past'—
With many a smile my solitude repay',
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
"And say, when summoned from the world and thee',
I lay my head beneath the willow tree',
Wilt thou, sweet mourner', at my stone appear',
And soothe my parted spirit ling'ring near'?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour', to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed';
With aching temples on thy hand reclined',
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind',
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low',
And think on all my love', and all my wo'?
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