GEORGE W. DOANE.

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

WHAT is that, mother?—

The lark, my child.-

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?—

The dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,

Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love

What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm in his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun.
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,

Onward and upward, true to the line.

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;

He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

A CHERUB.

BEAUTIFUL thing, with thine eye of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light, alone,

Art thou hasting now on that golden wing
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from that world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's unclouded sunshine lies,
Winning our hearts by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy
With the look, with the voice, of our darling boy,

Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts,

He had twined about with his infant arts,

To dwell from sin and sorrow far,

In the golden orb of his little star-
There he rejoiceth, while we, oh! we
Long to be happy and safe as he.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and fears to cease,
Wiping the tears that, unbidden, start
From their fountain deep, in the broken heart,
Cheering us still on our weary way,

Lest our hearts should faint, or our feet should stray,
Till, crowned for the conquest at last we shall be,
Beautiful thing! with our boy and thee!

THAT SILENT MOON.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have passed beneath her placid eye,
Since first, to light this wayward earth,
She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,
And superstition's senseless rite
And loud, licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light
Small sympathy is her's, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd, And heart meets heart in holy love, To sinile, in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love!

Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,

The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep : Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,

On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendor may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is her's to soothe the heart What power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day:

But oh I be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon !

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R