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Should sorrow o'er thy brow
Its darkened shadows fling,
And hopes that cheer thee now,
Die in their early spring;
Should pleasure at its birth

Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,There's rest for thee in heaven!

If ever life shall seem

To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the wearied dove,

O'er shoreless ocean driven,
Raise thou thine eye above,—

There's rest for thee in heaven!

But O! if always flowers

Throughout thy pathway bloom,

And gayly pass the hours,
Undimmed by earthly gloom;

Still let not every thought
To this poor world be given,
Not always be forgot

Thy better rest in heaven!

When sickness pales thy cheek,
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and weak

Tell of a time to die,-
Sweet hope shall whisper then,

"Though thou from earth be riven,

There's bliss beyond thy ken,—

There's rest for thee in heaven."

Bright.

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

What is that, Mother?—The lark, my child !— The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,

To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays,

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son !—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!-
Proudly careering his course of joy :

Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right

on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?—The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove ;
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die :
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings:
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

Doane:

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging

sea;

And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face while she bended her

knee :

"Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me; And say thou would'st rather they'd watch o'er thy father,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father

to see;

And closely caressing her child, with a blessing, Said: "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

Lover.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast.

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

"Oh! for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the swelling breeze,
And white waves heaving high.
The white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

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