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I marked the calm on her young
Of struggles that rushed before it.
As the shower on April's blossom
Drinks the tear from its virgin bosom.
The flush o'er her fair face went and came,
As I showed her a true-love token;
But her virgin heart was broken !.
Eke the rose round the jessamine's twining ;
Thomas Lyle. THE WIDOWED MOTHER.
Beside her babe, who sweetly slept,
of love gone by; And as the sobs thick-gathering came, She murmured her dead husband's name
'Mid that sad lullaby.
Well might that lulleby be sad,
On this cold-hearted earth
Who gave the orphan birth.
Stedfastly as a star doth look
She gazed upon the bosom
While thus she sat- -a sunbeam broke
And from his cradle smiled !
The mother or her child !
With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
And to her bosom leapt
Forgive me that I wept !
Sufferings there are from nature sprung,
May venture to declare ;
THE MARINER'S DREAM.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind: But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ;Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ;
His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest
O God! thou hast blessed me, I ask for no more.
Ah! whence is that flame which now glares, on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky.!
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere !
He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images direWild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck
The masts fly in splinters the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!