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How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

'Tis like the place memory left behind
When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;

So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.
BORN, 1808; DIED, 1825,

FEATS OF DEATH.

AMERICAN POETRY.

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,
Which withers and moulders the flowers in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,

I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity-I stay not to save.

CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION TO THE POOR.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

189

CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION TO THE POOR.

AMERICAN POETRY.

1

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Her only hope is in that sacred token
Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er;
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight

Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night.

She lives in her affections; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high to fall
And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers,-so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;

Her full heart melts, and then flows in heaven's dissolving rays.

And faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come-
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee:
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

VICTOR HUGO.

PRAYERS FOR ALL MEN.

FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

My daughter, go and pray! See, night is come:
One golden planet pierces through the gloom;
Trembles the misty outline of the hill.
Listen! the distant wheels in darkness glide-
All else is hushed; the tree by the roadside

Shakes in the wind its dust-strewn branches still.

Day is for evil, weariness, and pain.

Let us to prayer! calm night is come again:
The wind among the ruined towers so bare
Sighs mournfully: the herds, the flocks, the streams,
All suffer, all complain; worn nature seems
Longing for peace, for slumber, and for prayer.

It is the hour when babes with angels speak.
While we are rushing to our pleasures weak

And sinful, all young children, with bent knees, Eyes raised to heaven, and small hands folded fair, Say at the self-same hour the self-same prayer

On our behalf, to Him who all things sees.

PRAYERS FOR ALL MEN!

And then they sleep, Oh, peaceful cradle-sleep!
Oh, childhood's hallowed prayer! religion deep
Of love, not fear, in happiness expressed!
So the young bird, when done its twilight lay
Of praise, folds peacefully, at shut of day,
Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest.

II.

PRAY thou for all who living tread
Upon this earth of graves;
For all whose weary pathways lead
Among the winds and waves;
For him who madly takes delight
In pomp of silken mantle bright,
Or swiftness of a horse;

For those who, labouring, suffer still;
Coming or going-doing ill-

Or on their heavenward course.

Pray thou for him who nightly sins
Until the day dawns bright—
Who at eve's hour of prayer begins
His dance and banquet light;

Whose impious orgies wildly ring,
Whilst pious hearts are offering
Their prayers at twilight dim;
And who, those vespers all forgot,
Pursues his sin, and thinketh not
God also heareth him.

Child! pray for all the poor beside;
The prisoner in his cell,
And those who in the city wide

With crime and misery dwell;

191

For the wise sage who thinks and dreams;
For him who impiously blasphemes
Religion's holy law.

Pray thou-for prayer is infinite—

Thy faith may give the scorner light,

Thy prayer forgiveness draw.

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Chambers's Journal.

THE BEACON.*

THE scene was more beautiful far, to my eye,

Than if day in its pride had array'd it; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arch'd sky Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it.

The murmur arose, as I silently gazed

On the shadowy waves' playful motion;

From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed, Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girded nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers...

I sigh'd as I look'd from the hills' gentle slope;
All hush'd was the billows' commotion;

And I thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,

Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.

These beautiful verses were published many years ago: they were attributed to the pen of Thomas Moore, and several other eminent poets; but the real author is not known.

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