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NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
THE SOLDIER's WIDOW.
That I should ever come,
Lead on! my orphan boy!
May bring to thee a joy ;
Lead on! for thou art now
And I have seen his brow,
He will not meet thee there
He will not call to prayer.
Aye, my own boy! thy sire
With his high glance of fire.
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
While leaping pulses madly fly,
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
Of beauty on the whispering sea,
Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, and perhaps
My manliness hath drunk up tears,
Of a few miserable years,
Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
And night had on her silver wingWhen bursting leaves and diamondg rass,
" And waters leaping to the light, And all that makes the pulses pass
With wilder fleetness, throng'd the nightWhen all was beauty-then have I
With friends on whom my love is flung Like myrrh on winds of Araby,
Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. • And when the beautiful spirit there,
Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air
Like the light-dropping of the rain-
The spirit of a bended knee,
That our eternity might be
When night was stealing from the dawn, And mist was on the waking rills,
And tints were delicately drawn In the gray East—when birds were waking
With a low murmur in the trees, And melody by fits was breaking
Upon the whisper of the breeze, And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance
And when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river
Were catching upon wave and tree The arrows from his subtle quiver
I say, a voice has thrill'd me then, Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or, creeping from the silent glen
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
And pouring forth the earliest
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
And yielding to the blessed gush
Have risen up—the gay, the wild
MRS LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid
Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade;
And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet,
And holy words their ruby lips repeat,
Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
Wan poverty hath done the work of care;
Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move,
The “coat of many colors” proves His love,
And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saint-like charity inclined,
Come forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mind-
Of grateful love-one tear of contrite pain !
The rest of earthly Sabbaihs. Be your gain
CONNECTICUT RIVER. Fair River! not unknown to classic song ;Which still in varying beauty roll'st along, Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen, A line of silver mid a fringe of green; Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide, To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide; Or where, in azure mantle, pure and free, Thou giv'st thy cool hand to the waiting sea; Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, Herculean cities, and a prouder coast, Yet, from the bound where hoarse St Lawrence roars To where La Plata rocks the sounding shores; From where the urns of slimy Nilus shine, To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine; Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark, Or sacred Ganges whelms its votaries dark, No brighter skies the eye of day may see, No soil more verdant, nor a race more free. -See, where, amid their cultured vales, they stand, The generous offspring of a simple land; Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, King, priest, and prophet, in the homes they love. On equal laws their anchor'd hopes are stay'd, By all interpreted, and all obey'd. Alike the despot and the slave they hate, And rise firm columns of a happy state. To them content is bliss; and labour, health; And knowledge, power; and true religion, wealth.
The farmer, here, with honest pleasure secs His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, His bleating flocks, the shearer's care who need, His waving woods, the winter fire that feed, His hardy steers, that break the yielding soil, His patient sons, who aid their father's toil, The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest, And the white spire that points a world of rest. -His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear An equal burden in the yoke of care, With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves, Or from the press the golden cheese receives; Her pastime, when the daily task is o’er, With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door, Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow; Then, hale and cheerful, to her home repair, When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care, Press the full adder for her children's meal, Rock the tired babe, or wake the tuneful wheel.
See, towards yon dome, where village science dwells,
Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride!
Here, mid the graves by time so sacred made,