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Yes, thou must go ! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun
and sky, Thy master's home—from all of these my exiled one must fly : Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become
less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to
meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy
speed, Then must I starting wake, to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting
side ; And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant
pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each started
vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be ; Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle, yet so free: And yet if haply, when thou’rt gone, my lonely heart should
yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee
Return! alas, my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his
view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the
gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears ? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne
me on; And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, and sadly think, “It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him
When last I saw thee drink !-away! the fevered dream is
o'er; I could not live a day and know that we should meet no
more. They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's power is
strongThey tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou
wert sold ? 'Tis false ! 'tis false, my Arab steed !-I fling them back
their gold! Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant
plains ; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains !
Hon. MRS. NORTON.
Man the life-boat ! man the life-boat !
Hearts of oak, your succour lend;
Quick ! O quick! assistance send.
See the ark of refuge launching ;
See her hardy crew prepare
Gallant British hearts are there!
Now the fragile bark is hanging
O'er the billow's feathery height;
While we sicken at the sight.
Courage ! courage ! she's in safety!
See again her buoyant form,
Who controls the raging storm.
With her precious cargo freighted,
Now the life-boat nears the shore ;
Parents, brethren, friends embracing
Those they thought to see no more.
Blessings on the dauntless spirits,
Dangers thus who nobly brave;
So they may a brother save.
Is there nothing you can do ?
Have they not a voice for you ?
Here's a storm, a fearful tempest,
Souls are sinking in despair ;
Try, O try and guide them there !
O remember Him who saved you,
Whose right hand deliverance wrought :
You to peace and safety brought.
'Tis His voice now cheers you onward,---
“He that winneth souls is wise !” Launch the gospel's blessed life-boat, Venture all to win the prize.
C. H. Purdar.
THE FOX AND THE CAT.
A Fox and a cat, as they travelled one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way : “ 'Tis great,” says the fox, “ to make justice our guide !" “How god-like is mercy !" Grimalkin replied.
Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,
“In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat ;
“ What a wretch !” says the cat--“'tis the vilest of brutes; Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots ?” Cries the fox, “While our oaks give us acorns so good, What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood !"
Well, onward they marched, and they moralized still,
A spider that sat in her web on the wall,
DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.
My boy refused his food, forgot to play,
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed
Oh ! let me weep !-what mother would not weep, To see her child committed to the deep ?
No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid, Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed, Nor half-blown daisy in his little hand :Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land. Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace, Was awful beauty to his silent face. No more his sad eye looked me into tears ! Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow; And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow, But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak, Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow. I gazed upon him still- not wild with fearsGone were my fears, and present was despair ! But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair, Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek ;-O God! my heart !-I thought life still was there. But, to commit him to the watery grave, O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave,