THE PALM TREE.

IT waved not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann'd by southern breeze
In some green Isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet.
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange look'd it there!-the willow stream'd
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the desert's tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers;
Lamps that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colors flung,
And bright forms glanced-a fairy show-
Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, midst the throng
Seem'd reckless of all dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow, and long black hair-
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms;
He pass'd the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye;
But when, to that sole palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!

To him, to him its rustling spoke,
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper'd of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone

Had something of the sea-wave's moan!

His mother's cabin home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar,
The conch-note heard along the shore ;-
All through his wakening bosom swept,
He clasp'd his country's tree and wept!

Oh! scorn him not!-the strength whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
The unconquerable power, which fills
The freeman battling on his hills,

These have one fountain deep and clear

The same whence gush'd the child-like tear!

THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.

FATHER, guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greetings to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.

Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempest nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade
O'er the wild,

Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid-
Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,

O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste-
God of might!

Shield the homeless midst the waste,
Be his light!

In his distant cradle nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray,
For the loved and far away.-
Father guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!

Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!

Darker, wilder, grows the night-
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,

Where no roof to that blest head
Shelter gave--

Father! through the time of dread,
Save, oh! save!

THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

SING them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight!

Sing them along the misty moor,

Where ancient hunters roved,

And swell them through the torrent's roar, The songs our fathers loved!

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,

And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the banner'd wall:

The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age,

Like his own river's voice, have been

The peasant's heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill'd with plumy sheaves;

The woodman, by the starlight pale,
Cheer'd homeward through the leaves: