YOUNG CHILD OF AFFLICTION.

YOUNG child of affliction, thy bosom is torn,

Thy hopes have been blighted in youth's early morn;
Thy sorrows were many, young mourner, in sooth,
And heaven hath snatch'd from thee the joy of thy
youth;

But weep not, fair mourner, our days which are past,
This earth hath no blessings, no joys which can last;
One time we are happy, we smile in the morn,
But ere even darkens, we droop and we mourn;
Yet there is another, the world of the blest,

Where griefs have an ending, where sorrows have rest:
Then young child of sorrow, oh, heed not the gloom
Which shadows this frail world, which circles the
tomb.
ASKILL.

When you think you are honoured,
And believe you are loved;

But find your friends false

When they come to be proved;

Then think of me.

When with those whom you love
You are happy and gay,

And you bask in the middle

Of life's sunny ray;

Think not of me.

But when friends and relations

Your company fly;

And you're left unprotected,
Unfriended to die;

Then think of me.

M. H. J.

THE TRANSPORT.

THE great eye of day was wide open, and a joyful light filled the air, heaven, and ocean. The marbled clouds lay motionless far and wide over the deep-blue sky, and all the memory of storm and hurricane had vanished from the magnificence of that immense calm. There was but a gentle fluctuation on the bosom of the deep, and the sea-birds floated gently there, or dipped their wings, for a moment, in the wreathed foam, and again wheeled sportively away into the sunshine. One ship-only one single ship--was within the encircling horizon, and she had lain there, as if at anchor, since the morning light; for, although all her sails were set, scarcely a wandering breeze touched her canvass, and her flags hung dead on the staff and at peak, or lifted themselves uncertainly up at intervals, and then sunk again into motionless repose. The crew paced not her deck, for they knew that no breeze would come till after meridian,-and it was the sabbath-day.

A small congregation were singing praises to God in that chapel which rested almost as quietly on the sea as the house of worship, in which they had been used to pray, then rested far off, on a foundation of rock, in a green valley of their forsaken Scotland. They were emigrants-nor hoped ever again to see the mists of their native mountains. But, as they heard the voice of their psalm, each singer half forgot that it blended with the sound of the sea, and almost believed himself sitting in the kirk of his own beloved parish. But hundreds of billowy leagues intervened between them and the little tinkling bell that was now tolling their happier friends to the quiet house of God.

And now an old grey-headed man rose to pray, and held up his withered hands in fervent supplication for all around, whom, in good truth, he called his children -for three generations were with the patriarch in that tabernacle. There, in one group, were husbands and wives standing together, in awe of Him who held the deep in the hollow of his hand,-there, youths and

maidens, linked together by the feeling of the same destiny, some of them, perhaps, hoping, when they reached the shore, to lay their heads on one pillow,there, children, hand in hand, happy in the wonders of the ocean, and there, mere infants smiling on the sunny deck, and unconscious of the meaning of hymn

or prayer.

-

A low, confined, growling noise was heard struggling beneath the deck, and a sailor called, with a loud voice, fire, fire,—the ship's on fire!' Holy words died on the prayer's tongue-the congregation fell asunder -and pale faces, wild eyes, groans, shrieks, and outcries, rent the silence of the lonesome sea. No one, for a while knew the other, as all were hurried, as in a whirlwind, up and down the ship. A dismal heat, all unlike the warmth of that beautiful sun, came stifling on every breath. Mothers, who, in their first terror, had shuddered but for themselves, now clasped their infants to their breasts, and lifted up their eyes to heaven. Bold, brave men, grew white as ashes; and hands, strengthened by toil and storm, trembled like the aspen-leaf. Gone-gone,-we are all gone!' was now the cry; yet no one knew whence that cry came; and men glared reproachfully on each other's countenances, and strove to keep down the audible beating of their own hearts. The desperate love of life drove them instinctively to their stations, and the water was poured, as by the strength of giants, down among the mouldering flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air; and deck, masts, sails, and shrouds, were one crackling and hissing sheet of fire.

'Let down the boat!' was now the yell of hoarse voices; and in an instant she was filled with life. Then there was frantic leaping into the sea; and all who were fast drowning moved convulsively towards that little ark. Some sank down, at once, into oblivion; some grasped at nothing with their disappearing hands; some seized, in vain, unquenched pieces of the fiery wreck; some would fain have saved a friend almost in the last agonies; and some, strong in a savage despair, tore

from them the clenched fingers that would have dragged them down, and forgot, in fear, both love and pity.

Enveloped in flames and smoke, yet insensible as a corpse to the burning, a frantic mother flung down her baby among the crew; and, as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she shrieked out a prayer of thanksgiving. Go, husband, go; for I am content to die. Oh! live, live, my husband, for our darling Willy's sake.' But in the prime of life, and with his manly bosom full of health and hope, the husband looked but for a moment till he saw his child was safe; and then, taking his young wife in his arms, sat down beneath the burning fragments of the sail, with the rest that were resigned, never more to rise up till the sound of the last trumpet, when the faithful and the afflicted shall be raised to breathe for ever empyrean air.

THE GALIONGEE.*

Daylight is past, 'tis the evening's still hour,
And I've lighted my lamp in my jess'mine bow'r;
I've tuned my kitar, and ran over the strain
I've sang to my lov'd one again and again;
For dearest of all is the strain unto me
That wins me a kiss from my young galiongee.
Oh! is it not noble to fearlessly brave

The wrath of the tempest, the foam of the wave?
The sword to unsheathe 'gainst the foe we detest,
And die, or but sheathe it again in his breast,
And teach the proud Turk there are spirits still free?
So noble and brave is my young galiongee.
And is it not sweet, when the tempest is still,
And the ocean's as calm as the bed of the rill,
And pennant and sail cling close round the mast,
Unmov'd by the breeze that is murmuring past,
And moon-beams are dancing, in sheen, on the sea,
To repose on the breast of my young galiongee?

*A Greek sailor.

I see on the waters the shade of his boat,
I see its white sail, and my love's red capote;
I'll strike my kitar, and awaken the strain
I've sang to that lov'd one again and again;
For sweetest of all is that strain unto me

That wins me a kiss from my young galiongee. M. L.

PARTING.

I CANNOT live, and love thee not!
When far away

From thee I stray,

Should slandering tongue of rival youth,
Or jealous maid, belie my truth,

Let the false rumour move thee not.

And if, when I am near thee not,
Some busy foe

Shall bid me know

Another basks in my love's smile,'
The tale I'll heed not of thy guile,
Thou canst not change-I fear thee not.
No! falsehood can assail thee not;
"Twas not the excess

Of loveliness

That hems thee round, first fix'd me thine,
But thy pure soul-thy lore divine,

And truth, and these can fail thee not.
Then let our parting grieve thee not;
But quell that sigh,

And from thine eye

I'll kiss away the gathering tear,
And think! in one short fleeting year
I shall return-to leave thee not.

But ah! should truth pervade thee not!
I could not brook

Thine alter'd look ;

But, like a bud by unkind sky

Nipp'd timeless, I should droop and die

In silence, but upbraid thee not.

J. M. COLEN.