THE BLIND MOTHER.

GENTLY, dear mother, here

The bridge is broken near thee, and below
The waters with a rapid current flow-
Gently, and do not fear.

Lean on me, mother-plant thy staff before thee,
For she who loves thee most is watching o'er thee.

The green leaves, as we pass,

Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,

And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,

And the low forest grass

Grows green and lovely where the woodpaths windAlas, for thee, dear mother, thou art blind!

And nature is all bright;

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ;
And evening's dewy light

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky-
Alas, dear mother, for thy clouded eye!

The moon's new silver shell

Trembles above thee, and the stars float up
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencilled passing well,

And the swift birds on brilliant pinions fleeAlas, dear mother, that thou canst not see!

And the kind looks of friends

Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends

Low to thine ear with duty unforgot—

Alas, dear mother, that thou seest them not!

But thou canst hear-and love

May richly on a human tone be poured,
And the slight cadence of a whispered word
A daughter's love may prove ;

And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou dost not see my face the while.

Yes-thou canst hear—and He,

Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung Heaven, and earth, and sca!

And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know,

With but one sense the soul may overflow!

THE JOURNEY OF TRUTH.

ACCURSED be the hour I ventured to roam
From the cool recess of my moss-clad home;
I will back to my mouldering walls, and hide
These tears of despair and wounded pride.

I sought the enchantress Fashion's hall—
The many were bound in her iron thrall;
They turned from my simple prayer away,
As I told them how vain and capricious her sway.
A bard I met, with glorious eye,

And song, whose thrilling melody

Won its unchecked way to the human breast;

A flattering throng around him prest.

I told him how fickle and fleeting the loud
Unmeaning praise of the worthless crowd;
Of the aching brow, the hollow eye,
The wearing fears, the despondency,
The sleepless night, the vigil late,

The uncertain fame, and the certain hate;
But the poet frowned, and, turning to me,

• Begone from my sight, stern Truth,' said he ;
Can you hush the proud and lofty tone
Of my gloomy hope? Begone! begone!
Expect from frail woman unchanging smiles,
Or win the bird from the serpent's wiles,

i

Or lure yon moth from that glittering flame,
Sooner than sully my dream of fame.'

I entered the cell of the plodding sage,
And threw a gleam o'er his mystic page;

But he closed his pained eyeballs, and said, that I
Could never have seen his new theory.

A fair young maiden, with open brow,
Was listening to her first love's vow;

I whispered her, that one day she
Would weep her fond credulity;

That her idol was cold and vain, and would cling
To Ambition's shrine, and the offering

Of her changeless love would forget, and leave
Her youth over cold neglect to grieve.
She said my voice was harsh, and that I
Was governed by hate and by jealousy;
Her cheek was flushed with indignant pride,
As she clung more firm to her lover's side.
Wherever I went I spread dismay,
Friendship and Feeling I frightened away;
And Love shook his saucy finger at me,
And declared me his mortal enemy.

I entered the church, and what did I there?

I drove from the pulpit the minister.

Poor priest he turned paler than marble—but I
Could not win to my shrine one votary.

I knocked at the dying man's desolate gate—
Death looked from the window, and begged me to wait;
For a doctor had entered a moment before,

And seeing me coming, had bolted the door.

I entered his study to wait for him there,
And sat down to read in his easy chair;

But his books fell to picces, and during my stay,
Two thirds of his physic had melted away.

I dared not visit the lawyer's den, For I knew I should never return again; The rarest sport 't would have been for him, To murder, and tear me limb from limb. But it grieved me more than all, to see The very children afraid of me; The innocent creatures were at their play, And if I came near them they 'd scamper away. Good Heavens ! to have seen those urchins run, You'd have thought I'd been the unholy one. 'Twas the height of folly for me to roam, From the cool recess of my moss-clad home; I will back to my stony well, and hide These tears of despair and wounded pride.

THE STORM.

OUR ship had traversed many a league
Of the unfathomed sea,

And on her homeward way had swept

With steady flight and free;