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.

ELIZA COOK.

THE MARINER'S MOTHER'S PRAYER.

"A woman's feeble cry may have overruled the elemental war."-(CHALMERS.)

THE tempest round the cottage roars,

And bends the aged ash;

The casement shakes-a deluge pours-
And livid lightnings flash.

Poor sailor! in this midnight hour,

How canst thou stand the tempest's power?

Thy mother, startled from her sleep,

By nature's wild uproar,

Thinks of her boy, far on the deep,

And, succour to implore,

Falls on her knees before His throne,
Whose sceptre winds and waters own.

She prays to Him who dried her tears,
That wept an only child;

To Him, who chased the fishers' fears,
And stilled the tempest wild:
To Him that walked Gennesar's wave,
And stretched his ready hand to save.

THE MARINER'S MOTHER'S PRAYER. 257

Cold Infidel!-thou sneer'st to see

A widow in distress,

Who, thinking on a rocky lee,

Prays Heaven her boy to bless.— 'Tis well thou laugh'st not at her care, But at the folly of her prayer.

Oh! know'st thou not she prays to Him
Who gathers up the storms;
Whose will, around the ocean's brim,
Its only barrier forms?

He checks the blast-a zephyr blows,
And wearied ocean seeks repose.

Borne on the wings of Jesus' name,
Prayer mounts above the storm;
Moves Him that moves creation's frame,
To listen and perform!

Thus feeble woman on her knees

Can hush the storm, and calm the seas.

Yes-her's is covenanted power,
And faith her fear allays;
Sailor! rejoice in danger's hour,
To think thy mother prays!

With her thy Saviour's grace implore,

And praise Him when thou makest the shore.

J. LONGMUIR.

R

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet—
A foggy day in winter time),
A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime : Majestic in her person, tall and straight,

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair.

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

66

"What is it," said I, “ that you bear

Beneath the covert of your cloak,

Protected from the cold bleak air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, sir, a little singing bird."

And thus continuing, she said,

"I had a son, who many a day

Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away;

And I have travelled weary miles, to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for

me.

THE PAIN OF UNCERTAINTY.

"The bird and cage they both were his;
'Twas my son's bird, and neat and trim
He kept it; many voyages

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The singing bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind, From bodings, as might be, he had upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety; there

I found it when my son was dead;

And now, [forgive] me for my little wit,

I bear it with me, sir;-he took so much delight

in it!"

WORDSWORTH.

THE PAIN OF UNCERTAINTY.

"The hope that keeps alive despair."-(MONTGOMERY.)

WHERE art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?

Oh, find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;

To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them and then I miss ;
Was ever darkness like to this?

Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess;
Years to a mother bring distress,
But do not make her love the less.

My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight,
They mount-how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.