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Alas! they dream! 'tis but the ocean roar

Oh no! it echoes from the swarming shore!

Kind Heaven, thy hand was there. With swelling bound
The vast waves heaved the giant hull aground;
And, ebbing with the turning tide, became,
Like dying monsters, impotent and tame;
Wedged in the sand, their chafing can no more
Than lave her sides, and deaden with their roar
The clamorous burst of joy. But some there were
Whose joy was voiceless as their late despair-

Whose heavenward eyes, clasp'd hands, and streaming cheeks,
Did speak a language which the lip ne'er speaks!

O, he were heartless, in that passionate hour,

Who could not feel that weakness hath its power,
When gentle woman, sobbing and subdued,
Breathed forth her vow of holy gratitude,
Warm as the contrite Mary's, when forgiven-
An angel smiled, recording it in heaven!

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I SAW her in her morn of hope, in life's delicious spring,
A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the wing,
Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high,
Without a shadow in its path, - -a cloud upon its sky.

I see her yet so fancy deems- her soft, unbraided hair,
Gleaming like sunlight upon snow, above her forehead fair ;-

Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning smile that played,

In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's self had made!

And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her way,

Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd would ever know decav ;She had no winter in her note, but evermore would sing

(What darker season had she proved?) of spring-of only spring!

Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so bright,

The growth of many a happy year, one wayward hour should blight;
Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant brow o'ercast,
And make her beauty-like her bliss a shadow of the past!
Years came and went we met again, but what a change was there
The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of despair; -
The fitful flushing of the cheek, -the lips compress'd and thin,
The clinch of the attenuate hands, proclaim'd the strife within!
Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying power had given
Beauty, of more than mortal birth, -a spell that breathed of heaven;
And as she bent, resign'd and meek, beneath the chastening blow,
With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd to glow!
No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour was spoken,
For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted pledges broken; —
Like Him who for his murderers pray'd, she wept, but did not chide,
And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died!
Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond woman's truth
Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of her youth:
And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved and lost,
That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most!

;

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God.

So pass'd they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops on the olive-boughs,
With their cold dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart; and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for her rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls,
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd,
The earth's one sanctuary: and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung e'en as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song-"Alas!" she cried,

"Alas, my boy! thy gentle gasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted!
Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering weary hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like murmurs greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

What have I said, my child? - will He not hear thee
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Will He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

I give thee to thy God! the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

Therefore, farewell! I go; my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my first-born! droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL

BY BISHOP HEBER.

OUR task is done! -on Gunga's breast

The sun is sinking down to rest:

And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough,

Our bark has found its harbour now.

With furled sail, and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride.

Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslems' savoury supper steams,
While all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.

Come walk with me the jungle through;
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds his solitude;
Nor (taught by recent harm to shun
The thunders of the English gun)
A dreadful guest, but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake;
Child of the sun! he loves to lie
'Mid Nature's embers, parch'd and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade,
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe,
Fit warder in the gate of death!
Come on! Yet pause! behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where gemming oft that sacred gloom,
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom,
And winds our path through many a bower,
Of fragrant tree and crimson flower;
The ceiba's crimson pomp display'd
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly blade;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair,
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendent train and rushing wings,
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize,
So rich a shade, so green a sod,
Our English fairies never trod;

Yet who in Indian bower has stood,

But thought on England's good green-wood? And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade,

Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,

And breathed a prayer (how oft in vain)
To gaze upon her oaks again.
A truce to thought! the jackal's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry;
And through the trees yon falling ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark! as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes;
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring,
The darkness of the copse exploring;
While to this cooler air confess'd
The broad Dhatura bares her breast

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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 suppress'd.

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.

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