ST. MICHAEL'S TOWER.

ST. MICHAEL'S spire! St. Michael's spire!
How fair thou risest to the sight,-

Now, glittering in the noon-sun's fire,
Now, softened by the "pale moonlight!"

Dread storms have thunder'd o'er the sea, And crush'd the low, and rent the high; But there thou standest firm and free, With thy bright forehead to the sky.

Fierce fires in rolling volumes came,
But gleam'd innocuous on thy tower,
War's cannon roared with breath of flame,
Scatheless for thee career'd its power.

Symmetric spire! Our city's boast,
In scientific grandeur piled!

The guardian beacon of our coast,

The seaman's hope when waves are wild!

Palladium on thy lonely height,

The faithful watchman walks his round, While rest and safety rule the night, And stillness, as of holy ground.

All sleep but thee-thy tuneful bells
Hymn to the night-wind in its roar,
Or float upon the Atlantic swells,
That soften summer on our shore.

Soother of sickness! Oft thy chime
A gentle voice to darkness lends;
And speaks a language deep, sublime,
When love o'er dying virtue bends.

Thou guid'st the youth to classic hours,
The laborer to his task confin'd;
The maid, to joy's resplendent bowers,
The ambitious, to the strife of mind.

Thy Sabbath summons, not in vain,
Calls the mixed city to their God;
Each gravely seeks his chosen fane,

And treads the aisle his sires have trod.

And nobly do thy peans flow,

When patriots shout the annual strain, That echoes from far Mexico,

To where St. Lawrence holds his reign.

Gliding along bold Ashley's stream,
Or Cooper's, hung with mossy grace,
We turn to gaze upon thy beam,
And hospitable joys retrace.

And tender are the thoughts that rise,
When, sea-bound from thy level shore,

The tear of parting dims our eyes
Till we can view thy point no more.

And when returning to our land,

The summer exile nears his home, How beats his heart, and waves his hand, As first he greets thy welcome dome.

St. Michael's spire! I close my lay,
Touch'd by the moral thou hast given,
Though duties throng my earthly way,
My look, like thine, shall be to Heaven.
CHARLESTON, S. C. 1830.

MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH?

"MOTHER, how still the baby lies

I cannot hear his breath;

I cannot see his laughing eyes -
They tell me this is death.

"My little work I tried to bring, And sit down by his bed,

And pleasantly I tried to sing, —

They hushed me - he is dead.

"They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now,

That God will bless him in the skies -
O, mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,
A wither'd worm you thought?

"I told you that Almighty power
Could break that wither'd shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

"Look at the chrysalis, my love,

An empty shell it lies;

Now raise your wandering thoughts above, To where yon insect flies!"

"O yes, mamma, how very gay
Its wings of starry gold-
And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

"O, mother, now I know full well
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from its broken cell,
On golden wings to range;

"How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings

Above this dying world to flee,
And live with heavenly things."