Most awful is thy deep, and heavy boom
Grey watcher of the waters! thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.

How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down,
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And poising thy grey wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Oft-times I see thee through the curling mist
Dart, like a Spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now would'st thou, O man! delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from beauty's ruby lip.

THE MOTHER

PERISHING IN A SNOW-STORM.

BY SEBA SMITH.

"In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night time, while traveling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing."

THE cold wind swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifting snow she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow;

6

Her limbs were chilled her strength was gone.

Oh, God!' she cried, in accents wild,

'If I must perish, save my child!'

She stripped her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,

And round the child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss one tear she shed,
And sunk upon her snowy bed.

At dawn a traveler passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil;

The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale;

He moved the robe from off the child,

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled!

THE PRAYER

OF

THE SCOTTISH

COVENANTERS.

BY FRANCIS BARBOUR.*

HARK! from the mountain rock,
Is heard the voice of prayer ;

The hearts that seek the battle shock,
Are bowed in meekness there.

The armory of war is round,

Where once in peace they trod,

But nought is heard of the war's wild sound, They bow before their God.

The voice of youth is sweet,
Coming like music thence,
It is a holy place, and meet
For the prayer of innocence.
As flowers which usher in the spring,
More fragrance will impart,
Thus fresh and fair the offering,

From childhood's fervent heart.

Manhood has bent his strength,

In supplication now,

The fire of battle has at length

Fled from his noble brow:

His might has failed, but he sheds no tears,
Though earthly hopes are riven ;-
Nor hosts of earth, nor aught he fears,
Save the holiness of heaven.

"There are men of whitened brow" Among that mountain clan,—

The knee is bended now,

That never bent to man,

Though o'er their sires' once happy soil,

A cloud of darkness rolls,

Yet tyranny and age and toil,

Cannot subdue their souls.

Their life's short, stormy day

Is waning to its close,

And the soul's frail covering of cl ay

Seeks for its long repose.

Though like the rocks in their giddy height, They have felt the tempest's rage,

The patriot's fire in its quenchless might,

Still burns in the breast of age.