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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
Dissolved the illusion.” And the gentle smile
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed
Her waking infant, reassured his soul
That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,
And strike a healthful root, is happiness.
Content and placid, to his rest he sank :
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless

wrought Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart Of his own native city-roof and spire, All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray. The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed, The favourite dog came frisking round his feet, With shrill and joyous bark-familiar doors Flew open-greeting hands with his were linked In friendship’s grasp-he heard the keen debate From congregated haunts, where mind with

mind 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,
O'er rocks and mountains, fields and groves,

With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee,
On thymy bank or vernal tree,
Intent to store her industry

Within her waxen round ?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn,

Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturbed, and clear,
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,

And wake his grateful thought ?

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

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.

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