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Yes, thou must go ! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun

and sky, Thy master's home—from all of these my exiled one must fly : Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become

less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to

meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy

speed, Then must I starting wake, to feel—thou’rt sold, my Arab

steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting

side ; And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant

pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each started

vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be ; Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed ; so gentle, yet so free: And yet if haply, when thou’rt gone, my lonely heart should

yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee

to return?

Return! alas, my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his

view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the

gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears ? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne

me on; And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, and sadly think, “It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him

drink !"

When last I saw thee drink !-away! the fevered dream is

o'er; I could not live a day and know that we should meet no

more. They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's power is

strongThey tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou

wert sold ? 'Tis false ! 'tis false, my Arab steed !-I fling them back

their gold! Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant

plains ; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains !

Hon. MRS. NORTON.

THE LIFE-BOAT

Man the life-boat ! man the life-boat !

Hearts of oak, your succour lend;
See the shattered vessel stagger-

Quick ! O quick! assistance send.

See the ark of refuge launching ;

See her hardy crew prepare
For the dangerous work of mercy-

Gallant British hearts are there!

Now the fragile bark is hanging

O'er the billow's feathery height;
Now 'midst fearful depths descending,

While we sicken at the sight.

Courage ! courage ! she's in safety!

See again her buoyant form,
By His gracious hand uplifted

Who controls the raging storm.

With her precious cargo freighted,

Now the life-boat nears the shore ;

Parents, brethren, friends embracing

Those they thought to see no more.

Blessings on the dauntless spirits,

Dangers thus who nobly brave;
Ready life and limb to venture,

So they may a brother save.
Christian ! pause, and deeply ponder :

Is there nothing you can do ?
The sinking ship, the storm, the life-boat,

Have they not a voice for you ?

Here's a storm, a fearful tempest,

Souls are sinking in despair ;
There's a shore of blessed refuge--

Try, O try and guide them there !

O remember Him who saved you,

Whose right hand deliverance wrought :
Who from depths of guilt and anguish

You to peace and safety brought.

'Tis His voice now cheers you onward,---

“He that winneth souls is wise !” Launch the gospel's blessed life-boat, Venture all to win the prize.

C. H. Purdar.

THE FOX AND THE CAT.

A Fox and a cat, as they travelled one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way : “ 'Tis great,” says the fox, “ to make justice our guide !" “How god-like is mercy !" Grimalkin replied.

Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,
Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood,
Rushed forth--as he saw the dull shepherd asleep-
And seized for his supper an innocent sheep.

“In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat ;
When mutton's at hand,” says the wolf, “I must eat.”
Grimalkin's astonished !--the fox stood aghast,
To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.

“ What a wretch !” says the cat--“'tis the vilest of brutes; Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots ?” Cries the fox, “While our oaks give us acorns so good, What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood !"

Well, onward they marched, and they moralized still,
Till they came where some poultry picked chaff by a mill.
Sly Reynard surveyed them with gluttonous eyes,
And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize!
A mouse, too, that chanced from her covert to stray,
The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey !

A spider that sat in her web on the wall,
Perceived the poor victims, and pitied their fall :
She cried, “ Of such murders how guiltless am I !”
So ran to regale on a new-taken fly!

J. CUNNINGHAM.

DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.

My boy refused his food, forgot to play,
And sickened on the waters, day by day.
He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile;
He prattled less in accents void of guile,
Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave.
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o’er his eye of placid blue ;
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,
Who sees Death feeding on her dear child's check,
And strives in vain to think it is not so ?

Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed
O’er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan Dejection, like a fading flower!
At length my boy seemed better, and I slept-
Oh, soundly !—but methought my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, “ Ah! why do I weep, and weep in vain
For one so loved, so lost ? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to woe-
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again !”
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked ; and at my side-oh! still and cold !
Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told !
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild ;-
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child ?
Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed ;
His limbs were stiff-he moved not—he was dead !

Oh ! let me weep !-what mother would not weep, To see her child committed to the deep ?

No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid, Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed, Nor half-blown daisy in his little hand :Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land. Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace, Was awful beauty to his silent face. No more his sad eye looked me into tears ! Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow; And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow, But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak, Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow. I gazed upon him still- not wild with fearsGone were my fears, and present was despair ! But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair, Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek ;-O God! my heart !-I thought life still was there. But, to commit him to the watery grave, O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave,

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