Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest Lightly when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs Of hope, make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep, bright shadows from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe! Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And sunless riches, from affection's deep, Her lot is on you, to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain, Meekly to bear with wrong, and cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds, and silvery light, On through the dark days, fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first tenderness to heaven! MRS. HEMANS. MARY. HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Then one deep love doth supersede All subtle thought, all curious fears prayers, Thrice blest whose lives are faithful Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like their's? TENNYSON. 1 PRAYER. WHEN one that holds communion with the skies Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an Angel shook his wings: Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. So, when a ship, well-freighted with the stores THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA. There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud, There's a cheek that is getting ashy white, That check! that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea? The rushing whistle chills her blood, As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood, She conjures up the fearful scene Of yawning waves, where the ship between, 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; P |