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Thy faith and fervour, pleading
In unspent tones of love,
Perchance my soul are leading
To better hopes above.

Mother-I leave thy dwelling:
Oh! shall it be for ever!
With grief my heart is swelling,
From thee-from thee-to sever.
These arms, that now enfold me
So closely to thy heart,
These eyes, that now behold me,
From all-from all-I part.

ANON.

POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY.

"When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,-'O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.""

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.

I pluck'd a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchain'd her soul,
For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in woe,
And said a lonely prayer;
Yet still my temples seem'd to glow
As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorn'd the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.

Youth came-the props of virtue reel'd;
But oft, at day's decline,

A marble touch my brow congeal'd-
Bless'd mother, was it thine?-

In foreign lands I travell'd wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintain'd its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,

"My son-my only one-beware!
Nor sin against thy God."

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
My kindly warmth away,
And dimm'd the tablet of the soul;-
Yet when, with lordly sway,

This brow the plumed helm display'd,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray'd
These manly locks among,-

That hallow'd touch was ne'er forgot!

And now, though time hath set

His frosty seal upon my lot,

These temples feel it yet.

And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,

A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THE DEAD SOLDIER.

THINE was the death that many meet,
That many deem the best;
To lay them down at glory's feet
To their eternal rest-

For glory's glittering toy to rave,

And find the bauble in the grave!

What 'vails it where we barter life?
Whether upon the plain,
Amid the spirit-stirring strife,
Or on the stormy main?
On land or sea, it is the same;
We die; and what to us is fame?

Why liest thou stiff and idle there,
Thy hand upon thy sword,
While rapine shouts upon the air
His fearful signal-word?

Up, up! and join the gathering clan
Of human fiends that prey on man.

Up and away! the squadron'd horse
Approach its fierce array;

They'll mar thy poor dishonour'd corse,
And tread thy form away;

Madly o'er faint and dead they pour,
And hoof and fetlock smoke with gore.

Thou heed'st me not; thou hearest not
The trumpet echoing near;
And even the roaring cannon-shot
Flies soundless by thine ear:
Thy leader shouts-away, away
Ah, soldier! thou canst not obey!

An hour ago thou wert all life,
With fiery soul and eye,
Rushing amid the kindling strife,
To do thy best, and die-

And now a gory mass of clay
Is stretch'd upon the warrior's way.

Why are those trappings on thy form?
The harness could not shield
Thy bosom from the iron storm,
That hurtled o'er the field.

Men fled the terrors of thy brow-
The vulture does not fear thee now!

A thousand like thyself, ah me!
Are stretch'd upon the ground;
While the glad trump of victory
Is pealing round and round:
Hark, how the victors shout and cheer!
It matters not-the dead are here!

Arise! the Pæan rings aloud,
The battle-field is won;

Up, up, and join the eager crowd,
Before the booty's done:.
What-wilt not take the meed of toil,
Thy share of glory and of spoil?

Silent, and grim, and sad to view,
Thou liest upon the plain;
To bleach or fester in the dew,
The sun, the winds, the rain:

What art thou now, poor luckless tool?
A murderer's mark, a tyrant's fool.

HENRY D. BIRD

THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL.

THE ship's bell toll'd, and slowly o'er the deck Came forth the summon'd crew.-Bold, hardy men Far from their native skies, stood silent there,

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