Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round herarm
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.
"Alas!" she cried,—

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart—
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

66

Beholding thee so fair!

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath

parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, weary

hearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still

Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet

me,

When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet

me,

As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound

thee,

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

"What have I said, my child! Will He not hear

thee,

Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell! I go-my soul may fail me, As the heart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks.

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A barque from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,

Had vail'd her topsails to the sand,

And bow'd her noble mast.

The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.

We saw her proud flag struck that morn—
A star once o'er the seas,

Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,

And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearls were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;

And gorgeous robes-but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,

Not without strife he died.

And near him on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept-
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had press'd
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung

Το wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet long streamers hung All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,

Gleam'd up the boy's dead face, Like slumber's, trustingly serene,

In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet-eye-

He had known little of her dread,

Naught of her agony!

O human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu-
Surely thou hast another lot:

There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land-
Light up the beacon pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast-
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son

Looks with a boding eye

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side;