SONG. Should sorrow o'er thy brow 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, O'er shoreless ocean driven, There's rest for thee in heaven! But O! if always flowers Throughout thy pathway bloom, And gayly pass the hours, Still let not every thought Thy better rest in heaven! When sickness pales thy cheek, Tell of a time to die,- "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 !— In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!- Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, What is that, Mother?—The swan, my love! 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, my boys, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "Oh! for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the swelling breeze, |