God thee aid, his grace to win,

Through the cold world's maze of sin,
In each sad and joyous hour,

In thy weakness, as thy power;
Still my boy, my prayer shall be,
Oh that God may strengthen thee.

G. VERNON.

INDIAN MOTHER'S SONG.

SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light As the red birds that nestle secure on the

spray;

Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright As the dew-drops that sparkle around with

the ray.

O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent [head;

breast;

In the wild wood sleep cradles in roses thy But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed, He forsakes or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father! why stays he so long
On the shores where the surf of the wild Lake

is thrown,

[song Where the cataracts thunders hush silent his And his thoughts wander home, as he travels

alone.

B

18

STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER.

He skims the blue tide, in his bircben canoe, when the foe in the moon-beams his path may

descry;

The ball to its aim may speed deadly and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!

The Spirit that,s round us-whose presence is

near,

In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soulTrotect that lone bark in its lonely career, And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll!

J. W. EASTBURN.

STANZAS TO A DAUGHTER.

WHEN the lunar light is leaping

On the streamlet and the lake;
When the winds of heaven are sleeping,
And the nightingale awake;-

While mirrored in the ocean

The bright orbs of heaven appear,

'Tis an hour of deep devotion

Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer.

When the autumn breeze is sighing
Through the leafless forest wide;
And the flowers are dead, or dying,

Once the sunny garden's pride ;—

When the yellow leaves in motion,
Are seen whirling on the air,—
"Tis an hour for deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer.

On His power and greatness ponder,
When the torrent and the gale,
And the cataract and thunder,
In one fearful chorus swell:
Amidst nature's wild emotion,

Is thy soul oppressed with care?
'Tis the hour for deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to Him in prayer.

In sorrow, and in sickness,

And in poverty, and pain; And in vigour, or in weakness, On the mountains or the plain: In the desert, on the ocean,— To the throne of love repair; All are hours for deep devotionLift thy soul to Heaven in prayer.

VEDDER.

ON A DECEASED CHILD.

AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,

And yet too beautiful for tears.

20

ON A DECEASED CHILD.

The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek has lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight

I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But, when I see the fair wide brow,
Half-shaded by the silken hair,
That never looked so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel,
That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus, grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn;
The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And Heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet, why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,

Those eyes shall never weep again.

For think not that the blushing flower

Shall wither in the church-yard sod, 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far
The clouds of death and sorrow fly,
I see thee like a new-born star

Move up thy path-way in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfading and divine.

Then let the burthened heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy-that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its noon-day storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat,

My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;