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النشر الإلكتروني

Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,

Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,

And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,

For the aged to rest his weary head.

SOLITUDE.

DEEP Solitude I sought.

There was a dell

Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught,
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife
And fever of the world. I thought to be

There without witness.

But the violet's eye

Looked up upon me,-the fresh wild-rose smiled,

And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek,
And there were voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told

Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare.
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,

And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird

Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought

To be alone, and silent in thy realm,

Spirit of life and love! It might not be !

There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,

He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round

Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,

Are social and benevolent; and he

Who oft communeth in their language pure,

Roaming among them at the cool of day,

Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip;-he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness,—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound,

With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy, from that marble brow-
Death gazed, and left it there ;-he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY.

"When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations: but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure, as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,'O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.'"

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,

Ye children, young and gay?

Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kissed from my check the briny dew,

And taught my faltering tongue.

K

She, when the nightly couch was spread,

Would bow my infant knee,

And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,

And told me she was dead.

I plucked a fair white rose, and stole

To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo,

And said a lonely prayer;

Yet still my temples seemed to glow

As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,

Gay sports and pastimes dear;

I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.

Youth came-the props of virtue reeled;

But oft, at day's decline,

A marble touch my brow congealed—

Blessed mother, was it thine?

In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye ;—

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,

As from the lowly sod,

"My son-my only one-beware!

Nor sin against thy God."

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole

My kindly warmth away,

And dimmed the tablet of the soul

Yet when, with lordly sway,

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This brow the plumed helm displayed,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,-

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