Of shapeless logs, and this lone hermit home." "No-no. All was so still around, methought Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, Which mid the church, where erst we paid our Vows, So tuneful pealed. But tenderly thy voice But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart Doth blend and brighten, and till morning roved 'Mid the loved scenery of his native land. Sigourney. CONTENTMENT. Think'st thou the steed that restless roves, On thymy bank or vernal tree, Within her waxen round? Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn Than that which, in its native sphere, Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer, Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who, in his cot at rest, Finds heavenly peace, a willing guest, And bears the promise in his breast Of treasure in the skies? Sigourney. 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, 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 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: |