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 press'd
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd 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,
Gleam'd 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!

Oh! 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, rememb❜ring 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 crown'd,

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?

16*

EVENING PRAYER,

AT A GIRL'S 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 clust'ring locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.

Gaze on 'tis lovely!-Childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thoughtGaze-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 birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th' 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 sunless 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, oh! 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-O! happy to have given
Th' 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 prayerBut 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 ripen'd 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!