The lines of youth upon thy smiling brow!

Ay young to us,- though Nature's simplest race Would wildly gaze upon thee, and in silence bow

TO HIM, who made thee such, as we do now! "

Oh! I have seen men look on thee, then turn, And coldly say, "It is a lovely scene"!

And I have felt my youthful bosom burn,

To think that there were those so cold, so mean, That when they viewed thee, robed in all thy

sheen,

A living thing of youth and love and light,

In all thy brilliancy and beauty seen,

They would not kneel them down, and make the rocky

height

Whereon they stood, a shrine to worship GoD aright!

There's moonlight on thy waters once again : And rippling waves, that wash the pebbly shore, Driven by the angered tempest from the main, Are borne where ocean's voice is heard no more; And each comes whispering to the beach, to pour Its little tale of gladsomeness and glee

Along the rocks, that reared their crags before The fairest things of Nature's works began to be,That smiled upon Creation's earliest infancy!

The Alpine height, that lifts its cliff above,

And seeks proud commune with the things on high, Where half-fledged eaglets round its summit rove, And swift-winged lightnings on their errands fly,

Bears the wild impress of sublimity ;

But, when that man has fixed his dwelling there,

And rears his harvests 'neath a favoring sky,

Beauty sits throned amid those scenes so passing fair, Where the wild peaks before in nature's stillness were !

So with these mimic waves.

Once they have been

Amid the tumult of an angry deep,

Where the fierce tempest-spirit might be seen,
Piling the waters in a billowy heap,

Proud contest from their foaming heights to keep
With rocks that dared to brave him in his might :
But now in cherub loveliness they sleep,

Doubling the glories of the glorious things of night, Making the stars that twinkle o'er them seem moré bright!

There's music on thy waters : oh how sweet!

The sound has passed. But then its melody.

Is stealing o'er thy noiseless waters yet,
With its unearthly richness floating by!
Oh! I could soon hush up each heaving sigh,
Forget for ever sorrowing and woe,

And, swan-like, 'mid such music gladly die! Would it but come once more! alas! 't is ever so; The loveliest things on earth will always soonest go!

I dreamed of Heaven in happy dreams; I woke
To the deep thunders of the evening gun,
Which forth from silence in its grandeur spoke,
To bid its farewell to the setting sun,

"Another day of useful greatness gone! Another day of thy existence past!

And the deep echoes o'er the mountains run, To tell the tale to listening silence; and the waste Of woods gives answer to that sound to me the last!

PRAYERS OF THE GOOD.*

YE stars! that blaze so bright on Nature's crown, Lamps hung in chaos by a hand divine!

Ye sentinels, that walk your stated rounds,

Your mighty rounds, on Nature's still confine ! Say! are those clouds, so beauteous and so bright, That float along in mystic beauty there,

The prayers of good men wafted calmly on,
To gain an answer from the God of prayer?

* Written, probably, at sixteen.

THE ORPHAN.*

MOTHER, awake! the sun has set,
And darkness spreads along the sky;
No silver star is peeping yet,

And, save the night bird's mournful cry,
And the winds whistling loud and shrill,
I hear no sound; 't is fearful still.

Mother, awake! for thou hast slept
Long on the cold earth by my side;
I slumbered not, but watched and wept,
And yet I knew not why I cried;
"Tis bleak and very lonesome here;
I tremble sadly, mother dear!

Ah me why wilt thou not awake,

When I have called thee oft and loud?
A storm seems rising, soon will break
Yon heavy and alarming cloud;

Here is no shelter for my head,
Cold and exposed too is thy bed.

She hears me not! how pale and cold
Art thou, my mother dear!

The dead are so, I have been told ;

She breathes not, and I fear

* Written at the age of twelve or thirteen,— and founded upon an inci

dent in the life of a late English monarch.

My mother is no more! in lonesome woe
Onward her orphan boy must go!

Go! where? ah! GoD direct me now!
Father of all! my only one !

Guide my young footsteps, teach me how
To live, thy unprotected son!

Kind Heaven! perchance my prayers of grief
Are heard, and thou dost bring relief!

Kind stranger! list the orphan's tale,
And do not check soft pity's tear;
Though young, she felt misfortune's gale;
It has blown bitter and severe

On her, who slumbers 'neath yon tree,
Relieved from earthly misery!

It is my mother: — - from our home,
An humble cottage, we were driven

By cruel man, and forced to roam ;
No roof to shelter us but heaven,
Which, like my fate, in gloom is shrouded,
And all its beauties overclouded.

My father fell in battle strife,

When I, an infant in the arms,

Felt not the storms of chequered life,

Knew nought of direful war's alarms;

But that I knew a mother's love,

My tears of anguish now will prove !