A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.

COME take our boy, and we will go

Before our cabin door;

The winds shall bring us, as they blow,
The murmurs of the shore;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore:

I'll sing, in his delighted ear,

The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat,

Thy country's tongue shalt teach;

'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet

Than my own native speech:
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,

Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet;

Ah! well for me they won thy gaze,—

But thine were fairer yet!

I'm glad to see my infant wear

Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,

And when my sight is met

By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,

Outshine the beauty of the sea,

White foam and crimson shell.

I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,

A sight to please thee well:
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet like an English maid.

Come, for the low sunlight calls,

We lose the pleasant hours; 'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,That seat among the flowers.

And I will learn of thee a prayer,

To Him who gave a home so fair,

A lot so blest as ours

The God who made, for thee and me,

This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

THE SKIES.

Ay! gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundless firmament!

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall,
Dost overhang and circle all.

Far, far below thee, tall old trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,
And hills, whose ancient summits freeze
In the fierce light and cold.

The eagle soars his utmost height,
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.

Thou hast thy frowns-with thee on high The storm has made his airy seat, Beyond that soft blue curtain lie

His stores of hail and sleet.

Thence the consuming lightnings break,

There the strong hurricanes awake.

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles

Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern: Earth sends, from all her thousand isles,

A shout at thy return.

The glory that comes down from thee,
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine,

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way.

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there

The meek moon walks the silent air.

The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast,

May thy blue pillars rise.

I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.

And they are fair-a charm is theirs,

That earth, the proud green earth, has not—

With all the forms, and hues, and airs,

That haunt her sweetest spot.

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere,

And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh, when, amid the throng of men,

The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us then

Away from this cold earth,

And look into thy azure breast,

For seats of innocence and rest!