With striking keel and splintered mast,
Is plunging hard and foundering fast.
She sees her boy, with lank drenched hair,
Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair
Oh, the vision is madd'ning! No grief can be
Like a mother's who hath a child at sea.

She presses her brow she sinks and kneels,
Whilst the blast howls on and the thunder peals:
She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer
Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear;
It is poured in the long convulsive sigh,
In the straining glance of an upturned eye,
And a holier offering cannot be

Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past,
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast;
But a pang will rise, with sad alloy,

To soften my spirit and sink my joy,
When I think how dismal their voices must be

To a mother who hath a child at sea!

OH! DEAR TO MEMORY ARE THOSE HOURS.

OH! dear to memory are those hours
When every pathway led to flowers;
When sticks of peppermint possessed
A sceptre's power o'er the breast,
And heaven was round us while we fed
On rich ambrosial gingerbread.

I bless the days of infancy,

When, stealing from a mother's eye,
Elysian happiness was found

On that celestial field, the ground;
When we were busied, hands and hearts,
In those important things, dirt tarts.
Don't smile, for sapient, full-grown man,
Oft cogitates some mighty plan;
And, spell-bound by the bubble dream,
He labors till he proves the scheme
About as useful and as wise
As manufacturing dirt pies:

There's many a change on Folly's bells
Quite equals mud and oyster shells.

Then shone the meteor rays of youth,
Eclipsing quite the lamp of truth;

And precious those bright sunbeams were
That dried all tears, dispersed all care;
That shed a stream of golden joy,
Without one atom of alloy.

Oh! ne'er in mercy strive to chase

Such dazzling phantoms from their place!

However trifling, mean, or wild,

The deeds may seem of youth or child,
While they still leave untarnished soul,
The iron rod of stern control

Should be but gentle in its sway,
Nor rend the magic veil away.

I doubt if it be kind or wise

To quench the light in opening eyes,
By preaching fallacy and wo

As all that we can meet below.
I ne'er respect the ready tongue
That augurs sorrow to the young;
That aptly plays a sybil's part,
To promise nightshade to the heart.
Let them exult! their laugh and song
Are rarely known to last too long.
Why should we strive with cynic frown
To knock their fairy castles down?
We know that much of pain and strife
Must be the common lot of life:
We know the world is dark and rough,
But time betrays that soon enough!

SPRING.

WELCOME, all hail to thee!
Welcome, young Spring!
Thy sun-ray is bright

On the butterfly's wing.
Beauty shines forth

In the blossom-robed trees:

Perfume floats by

On the soft southern breeze.

The eye of the hale one,
With joy in its gleam,

Looks up in the noontide,
And steals from the beam;
But the cheek of the pale one
Is marked with despair,
To feel itself fading,

When all is so fair.

The hedges, luxuriant
With flowers and balm,
Are purple with violets,
And shaded with palm;
The zephyr-kissed grass
Is beginning to wave;
Fresh verdure is decking
The garden and grave.

Welcome! all hail to thee,
Heart-stirring May!

Thou hast won from my wild harp

A rapturous lay.

And the last dying murmur

That sleeps on the string
Is welcome. All hail to thee

Welcome, young Spring!