When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north; Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat. That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone; But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride; mane; He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill: And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear Power of Maternal Piety.—MRS. SIGOURNEY. "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, I had a mother once, like you, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, She, when the nightly couch was spread, And place her hand upon my head, But, then, there came a fearful day; Till harsh hands tore me thence away, I plucked a fair white rose, and stole And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, That eve, I knelt me down in wo, Yet still my temples seemed to glow Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, I rose a wild and wayward boy, Fierce passions shook me like a reed; That soft hand made my bosom bleed, Youth came-the props of virtue reeled; A marble touch my brow congealed- In foreign lands I travelled wide, Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, And with it breathed a voice of care, As from the lowly sod, My son-my only one-beware! Nor sin against thy God." Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole And dimmed the tablet of the soul;- This brow the plumed helm displayed, That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!- His frosty seal upon my lot, These temples feel it yet. And if I e'er in heaven appear, Have led the wanderer there. Niagara.-U. STATES REVIEW AND LITERARY GAZETTE From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia. TREMENDOUS TORRENT! for an instant hush The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes I am not all unworthy of thy sight; For, from my very boyhood, have I loved,- At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, I have been touched with joy; and, when the sea, Its dangers and the wrath of elements. But never yet the madness of the sea My brain Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now. They reach-they leap the barrier: the abyss A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods The violent shock Shatters to vapor the descending sheets: A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves God of all truth! in other lands I've seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw Their fellows deep into impiety; And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. Dread torrent! that, with wonder and with fear, Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who supplies, What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, Pass, like a noon-day dream,-the blossoming days, And he awakes to sorrow. * * * Hear, dread Niagara! my latest voice. * Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse, Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds Absalom.-N. P. WILLIS. THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves, |