Yet from her own meek eyelids chas'd 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 banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd Her bosom, as before her, thro’ the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 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, Turnd from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell’d high ; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake 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 thon 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

Turn'd from its door away,
While, thro’ its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I anguish 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 sieep's low, dove-like murmurs 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
Tbine 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 ?

Will 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 stag 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 !"



NOBLE the mountain-stream,
Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground;

Glory is in its gleam
Of brightness ;-thunder in its deafening sound !

Mark, how its foamy spray,
Tinged by the sun-beams with reflected dyes,

Mimics the bow of day
Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ;

Thence, in a Summer-shower,
Steeping the rocks around :-Oh! tell me where

Could majesty and power
Be cloth’d in forms more beautifully fair ?

Yet lovelier, in my view,
The streamlet, flowing silently serene;

Traced by the brighter hue,
And livelier growth it gives ;-itself unseen !

It flows through flowery meads,
Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ;

Its quiet beauty feeds
The alders that o’er-shade it with their boughs

Gently it murmurs by
The Village Churchyard :-its low, plaintive tone,

A dirge-like melody
For worth and beauty modest as its own.

More gaily now it sweeps
By the small School-house, in the sunshine bright;

And o'er the pebbles leaps,
Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,
In characters wbich they who run may read,

The charm of gentleness,
Were but its still small voice allow'd to plead ?

What are the trophies gain'd
By power alone, with all its noise and strife,

To that meek wreath, unstain'd,
Won by the charities that gladden life?

Niagara's streams might fail,
And human happiness be undisturb'd :

But Egypt would turn pale,
Were her still Nile's o’erflowing bounty curl'd !


Like the young spring.buds sweet and bright,
And like the lark, and like the light,
And like the wind, and like the wave,
E’en such is Hope: buds find a grave,
The lark gives place unto the owl,
The light must yield to darkness foul,
The winds are fickle, waves betray,
And Hope is falser far than they.

And like the dew upon the thorn,
And like the blushful break of morn,
And like a vessel harbour'd well,
And like a song, and like a spell,
E'en such is Man: the dew exhales,
The morning's past, the vessel sails,
The song is sweet, but swiftly flies,
The spell is broken-Man he dies.

And like the azure skies of June,
And like the sun, and like the moon,
And like a bowl, and like a smile,
And like a taper's burning pile,
E'en such is Life: the chang'd sky rains,
The sun goes down, the pale moon wanes,
The bowl is drain'd, that smile's the last,
The taper's spent, and Life is past.



WHERE's the snow-the summer snow

On the lovely lily flower ? Where the hues the sunset shed

O'er the rose's crimson hour?
Where's gold-the pure bright gold —

O'er the young laburnum flung ;
And the fragrant sighs that breathed
Whence the hyacinth drooping hung ?

Gone, gone-they all are gone.

Maiden, lovelier than the spring,

Is thy bloom departed too ?
Has thy cheek forgot its rose,

Or thine eye its April blue ?
Where are thy sweet bursts of song?

Where the wreaths that bound thy hair?
Where the thousand prisoner curls ?
And thy sunny smiles are—Where ?--

Gone, gone-they all are gone.

Youth, where is thine open brow?

What has quell'd thine eagle eye ? Where's the freshness of thy cheek?

And thy dark hair's raven dye? Where's thy crimson banner now

Where's thine eager step and sword ? Where's thine hour of dreamless sleep? Where frank jest and careless word ?--

Gone, gone—they all are gone.

Where's the lighted hall; and where

All that made its midnight gay? Where's the music of the harp ?

And the minstrel's knightly lay ? Where's the graceful saraband ?

Where the lamps of starry light? Where the vases of bright flowers ? Where the blushes yet more bright ?

Gone, gone—they all are gone.

Where are those fair dreams that niade

Life so beautiful at first ? Where the many fantasies

That young Hope so fondly nurst ; Love with motto like a knight,

Faithful even to the tomb; Fortune following the wish ; Pleasure with a folded plume ?

Gone, gone-they all are gone.

Oh! mine own heart, where are they

Visions of thine earlier hour,
When thy young hope's colours were

Like those on the morning flower.
Where's the trusting confidence

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