Child of the sea, the mountain stream, From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest, O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast So turns my soul to Thee ! 0 Thou who bidst the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind Mover of all things ! where art Thou? Oh, whither shall I go to find Is there no holy wing for me, Of highest Heaven for Thee ? Oh, would I were as free to rise As leaves on Autumn's whirlwind borne The arrowy light of sunset skies, Or sound, or ray, or star of morn Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, Or aught which soars unchecked and free Through Earth and Heaven ; that I might lose Myself in finding Thee ! When the BREATH DIVINE is flowing, When my upward gaze is turning When the breaking day is flushing When my waking fancies over Then, O Father ! — Thou alone, Seldom upon lips of mine Deep within my inmost breast, In the secret place of mind, Like an awful presence shrined, THE FEMALE MARTYR. (Mary G-, aged 13, a “SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.) “ Bring out your dead !” the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ; Her coffin and her pall. How sunk the inmost hearts of all, As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, To hear it and to die ! - It paused beside the burial-place; “Toss in your load !” — and it was done. With quick hand and averted face, They cast them, one by one And thou, young martyr !— thou wast there — No white-robed sisters round thee trod Giving thee to thy God; Yet, gentle sufferer ! — there shall be, In every heart of kindly feeling, Thy sisterhood were kneeling, For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well, Far more than words may tell : Where manly hearts were failing, — where The throngful street grew foul with death, O high souled martyr ! — thou wast there, Inhaling from the loathsome air, Poison with every breath. Yet shrinking not from offices of dread For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead. And, where the sickly taper shed Its light through vapors, damp, confined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread — Of suffering human-kind ! Innocent teacher of the high And holy mysteries of Heaven ! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy, As thy low prayers were given ; And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features a deliverer's smile ! A blessed task ! — and worthy one Who, turning from the world, as thou, Had sealed her early vow; Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Could be for thee a meet reward ; Thine is a treasure far more dear Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard, The joys prepared — the promised bliss aboveThe holy presence of Eternal Love! Sleep on in peace. The earth has not The fire of poesy - thine Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall, |