"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 cloud 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 thy 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 peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A barque from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,

Had vail'd her topsails to the sand,'

And bow'd 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
Flash'd 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 crush'd 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 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 sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.