BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

I PRAY thee by thy mother's face
And by her look and by her eye,
By every decent matron grace

That hovered round the resting place
Where thy young head did lie ;

And by the voice that soothed thine ear,
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear,
That matched thy changeful mood;
By every prayer thy mother taught-
By every blessing that she sought,
I pray thee to be good.

Is not the nestling, when it wakes Its eye upon the wood around,

And on its new fledged, pinions takes Its taste of leaves and boughs and brakesOf motion slight and sound,

Is it not like the parent? Then

Be like thy mother, child, and when

Thy wing is bold and strong;

As pure and steady be thy light— As high and heavenly be thy flightAs holy be thy song.

208

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

GLIDE gaily forth, my gallant barque
Thy canvass proudly swell;
Above thee is the glorious sky,
Beneath, the mermaid's cell.
The gems of ocean court thy smile,
Then speed thee o'er the main,
Free as the Arab courser's tread
Upon his native plain.

The dolphin sports along thy track
In many a graceful bound,
And from yon beetling cliff is heard
The sea-gull's mournful sound:
Thy pennon from its airy couch

Unfolds its crimson dress,
Then launch upon thy watery way,
The amorous waves to press.

How beauteous floats thy swan like form

Along the mighty deep,

While the moon's rays in silent pomp

Upon the billows sleep!

To rival thee, earth's loveliest charms

In vain display their store,

As from thy prow in sparkling gems

The liquid treasures pour.

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

The breeze is fair, the anchor's weighed,

And, as recedes the land,

Headland and cliff, in distance dim,

Like giant shadows stand.
The eagle from his eyry springs
Amazed, in doubt, to see

His matchless pinions first surpassed
In strength and speed by thee.

When from their chambers in the skies
The vivid lightnings flash,

And, borne upon the whirlwind's wrath,
The waves in fury dash;

With fearless steps I tread thy deck,
Nor heed the angry storm,
As o'er the booming surges still

Thou proudly rear'st thy form.

We go, my barque, where incense floats
Upon the perfumed air,

And from the cushioned mosque is heard

The moslem voice of

prayer:

'To Allah!' still from turbaned hosts

Resounds the solemn cry

'To Allah!' wafted on the breeze,

The echoing hills reply.

Fair Venice too, with mirrored bay,
Will meet my anxious gaze-
Her domes and temples glittering yet
Beneath the noontide blaze:

209

210

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

Though fall'n her pride, her glory fled,

Their shadows still appear,

And fancy wakes them in the song
Of the merry gondolier.

When ample treasure toil repays,
Again our course we'll steer
To where Columbia's giant peaks
Their hoary crests uprear:
Again will rise in dreamy blue
My native landscape, fair,
While well known voices float along
Upon the buoyant air.

My mother then this form will clasp
In many a fond caress;

My aged sire with smiles and tears

His roving sea boy bless;

The loved one bound with fawn-like tread

And blush my gaze to meet,

While I into her willing ear

The oft pledged vow repeat.

And then, my barque, all perils past,
No more we'll court the gale,
But to the gentle south wind's breath
Unfurl thy snow-white sail;
And, bound in pleasure's joyous chase,
We'll rove the summer sea,
Thy faithful bosom bearing still

My sylph-like maid and me.

THE YOUNG.

(211

THE YOUNG.

BY W. G. CLARK.

WHEN into dust, like dewy flowers departed,
From our dim paths the bright and lovely fade;
The fair in form-the pure-the gentle hearted,
Whose looks within the breast a Sabbath made;
How like a whisper on the inconstant wind,
The memory of their voices stirs the mind!

We hear the sigh, the song, the fitful laughter
That from their lips, in balm, were wont to flow,
When hope's beguiling wings they hurried after,
And drank her siren music long ago;

While joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung And poured rich numbers for the loved and young!

When the clear stars are burning high in heaven,— When the low night-winds kiss the autumnal tree, And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even, How soft those voices on the heart will be! They breathe of raptures which have bloomed and died,

Of sorrows, by remembrance sanctified.

Yet, when the loved have from our pathway vanished,

What potent magic can their smiles restore