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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.
DEEP Solitude I sought.
There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
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,
Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
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,
DEATH OF AN INFANT.
DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
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,
I had a mother once, like you,
Kissed from my check the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
But, then, there came a fearful day;
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,
Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
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,
Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
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,
This brow the plumed helm displayed,