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SONGSTER.

THE FISHERMAN'S ORPHAN.

Poor Orphan am I, scarcely turn'd of iwelve years,

And Mary a beggms must go :
My father, a fisherman Noid of all fears,

On the rude billows toss'd to and fro-
One night as he braved alone the rouglı ocean,
The raging winds howl'd in a dreadful cominotion,
His boat was his coffin, the water his grave,
Now deep he lies buried beneath the green wave..

My mother, heart-broken, to heaven is gone,

And left her poor Mary bebind; And now through this wide world I wander forlorn,

To beg of the good and the kind. Though thinly I'm clad, and with cold I now shiver, Yet warm is my heart, and 'twill bless the dear giver; No friend has poor Mary, from hunger to save, Her father and mother lie low in the grave.

The sky is my covering, the cold earth my bed,

As I lay down to slumber and weep,
And on the pale primrose I pillow my head,

While the winds kindly lull me to sleep:
Then I see in my dreams, my dear father returning,
And inix with sad tears, the cold dews of the morning;
But alas! who could cver return from the grave ?
Now deep he lies buried beneath the green wave.

Oli! had I but wealth, what a tomb would I rear,

To parents so tender and good;
O'er my mother's low hillock, drop many a tear-

But my father lies deep in the flood.
The wild birds of ocean, as through the air sailing,
At midnight are heard, o'er him mournfully wailing :
And gold-gleaming fishers, beneath the green wave,
With sea-weed and coral, now deck his cold grave.'

FALIN IS THY THRONE!

AIR---Martini. Fall'n is thy throne, oh Israel !

Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee

On Elin's barren shore ?
That fire from Heave’n which led thee,

Now lights thy path no more.
Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem ;

Once, she was all thy own; Her love thy fajrest heritage,

Her power thy glory's throne.
Till evil came, and blighted

Thy jong lov’d olive tree;
And Salem's shrines were lighted

For other Gods than thee?
Then sunk the star of Solyma ;

Then pass'd her glory's day, Like heath, that, in the wilderness,

The wild wind whirls away Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers,

Where Baal reign'd as God!

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