God thee aid, his grace to win, Through the cold world's maze of sin, In thy weakness, as thy power; 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 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; 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 Once the sunny garden's pride ;— When the yellow leaves in motion, On His power and greatness ponder, Is thy soul oppressed with care? 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 too beautiful for tears. 20 ON A DECEASED CHILD. The sparkling eye no more is bright, I stand and gaze upon the dead. But, when I see the fair wide brow, When life and health were laughing there, I wonder not that parents' eyes, Are blended with the funeral hymn; 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 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 Move up thy path-way in the sky: Then let the burthened heart be free, The mournful beauty of the dead; 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! My memory warmly treasures yet |