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The heathen with joy cast his idols away,
And knelt 'neath his own vine and fig tree to

pray. By every kindred, and nation, and tongue, Glad anthems of praise to Jehovah were sung.

SARAH T. BOLTON.

Then why, my Soul, dost thou

Complain?
GOD, whose thunder shakes the sky;

Whose eye this atom globe surveys;
To Thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise ;

The mystic mazes of thy will,

The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill

But what the Eternal acts is right.

O teach me in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,

Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee

Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,

And Mercy took the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ?

Why, drooping, seek the dark recess ? Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless. But ah! my breast is human still ;

The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare. But yet, with fortitude resigned,

I'll thank the inflictor of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,

Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,

Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

CHATTERTON.

The Hebrew Mother. THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, When a young mother, with her first-born,

thence Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed Unto the temple service. By the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, To bring before her God.

So passed they on O’er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling raindrops, or the olive-boughs With their cold dimness crossed the sultry blue Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that she might rest; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and

watch The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose, As at a red flower's heart : and where a fount Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, Making its banks green gems along the wild, There too she lingered, from the diamond wave Drawing clear water for his rosy lips, And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reached, The earth’s One Sanctuary; and rapture hushed Her bosom, as before her, through the day It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted through rainbow-gleaming tears his eye Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, Turned from the white-robed priest, and round

her arm Clung even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song.–“ Alas !” she cried,

“ Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy beaming eyes,

And now fond thoughts arise, And silver chords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart

How shall I hence depart ?

“ How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert

playing So late among the mountains at my side;

And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile

hath parted ! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,
While, through its chambers wandering weary-

hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,

Went like a singing rill ?

“ Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet

me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!
Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs

greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

“ And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round

thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ?

Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound

thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear ? “ What have I said, my child ? will He not hear

thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ?

Will He not guard thy rest, And in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy! “I give thee to thy God! the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart !

And precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, HE shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child. “ Therefore, farewell !—I go; my soul may fail

me, As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks; But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail

me! Thou, in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell The Rock of Strength—farewell!”

FELICIA HEMANS.

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