Thy faith and fervour, pleading Mother-I leave thy dwelling: 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, I had a mother once, like you, Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew, She, when the nightly couch was spread, But, then, there came a fearful day; I pluck'd a fair white rose, and stole And thought strange sleep enchain'd her soul, That eve, I knelt me down in woe, Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, Fierce passions shook me like a reed; That soft hand made my bosom bleed, Youth came-the props of virtue reel'd; A marble touch my brow congeal'd- In foreign lands I travell'd wide, Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, And with it breathed a voice of care, "My son-my only one-beware! Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole This brow the plumed helm display'd, 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 hand, and gentle tear, MRS. SIGOURNEY. THE DEAD SOLDIER. THINE was the death that many meet, For glory's glittering toy to rave, And find the bauble in the grave! What 'vails it where we barter life? Why liest thou stiff and idle there, Up, up! and join the gathering clan Up and away! the squadron'd horse They'll mar thy poor dishonour'd corse, Madly o'er faint and dead they pour, Thou heed'st me not; thou hearest not An hour ago thou wert all life, And now a gory mass of clay Why are those trappings on thy form? Men fled the terrors of thy brow- A thousand like thyself, ah me! Arise! the Pæan rings aloud, Up, up, and join the eager crowd, Silent, and grim, and sad to view, What art thou now, poor luckless tool? 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, |