And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird

Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought

To be alone, and silent in thy realm,

Spirit of life and love! It might not be !

There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,
He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round

Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,

Are social and benevolent; and he

Who oft communeth in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,

Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip;—he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness,- -a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids

For ever. There had been a murmuring sound,

With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy, from that marble brow—
Death gazed, and left it there ;—he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY.

"When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations: but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure, as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,'O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.""

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,

Ye children, young and gay?

Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,

Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,

And taught my faltering tongue.

K

She, when the nightly couch was spread,

Would bow my infant knee,

And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,

Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.

I plucked a fair white rose, and stole

To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,

For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo,

And said lonely prayer;

Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;

I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,

And down I fell, and wept.

Youth came the props of virtue reeled;

But oft, at day's decline,

A marble touch my brow congealed—
Blessed mother, was it thine?

In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,

As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,

66

As from the lowly sod,

My son-my only one-beware!

Nor sin against thy God."

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole

My kindly warmth away,

And dimmed the tablet of the soul;—

Yet when, with lordly sway,

This brow the plumed helm displayed,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,-

That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!—
And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,

These temples feel it yet.

And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,

A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye?-Did some white-winged messenger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows?

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,

Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ?—

Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils