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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 patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour;

And sunless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds, a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

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.


HER eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,
And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears
Borne down by gladness so complete ;
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like their's?



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 sun matures on India's spicy shores,
Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvas furl'd
In some safe haven of one western world;
T'were vain enquiry, to what port she went,
The gale informs us-laden with the scent.


There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
Folding the moon in a funeral shroud,
That watches the stars dying one by one,
Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone ;
There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge,
As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge.
That eye, that ear! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
As the tokens of storm come on with night;
There's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane
To mark how the gloom gathers over the main,
While the yeasty billows lash the shore
With loftier sweep and hoarser roar ;

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,
And the icy shiver spreads to her heart,
As the first red lines of lightning start.
The ocean boils! all mute she stands,
With parted lips and tight-clasped hands:
Oh, marvel not at her fear, for she

Is a mother who hath a child at sea!

She conjures up the fearful scene
Of yawning waves, where the ship between,
With striking keel and splintered mast,
Is plunging hard and foundering fast!
She sees her boy, with lank drenched hair,
Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair;
Oh, the vision is maddening! No grief can be
Like a mother's who hath a child at sea!

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


Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear;


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