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

The Hebrew Mother.

HE 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 heartHow 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 wearyhearted,

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

And precious as thou art,

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.

The Stream of Time.

HILD of the dust! if e'er thine

CHILD

eye

Has watch'd the torrent's flow, Where, distant from its source on high, It sweeps the vale below,

Then hast thou seen a silent force

Pervade its current strong;

No sound, no ripple, marks its course,
And yet it speeds along.

'Tis noiseless thus, yet swift as thought The stream of time rolls by;

And thus, though man regards them not,
His precious moments fly.

A few brief days, in splendour bright,
Yon glorious orb has shone;
Add next a few returns of night,
And, lo! a year is gone.

Lord! grant me grace these seasons fleet
To Thee alone to spend,

That I with joy Thy face may meet,
When life's short course shall end:
And teach me on that Saviour's love
To build my only trust,

Who, though He fills a throne above,
Was once allied to dust.

Oh then, while days and years shall glide

In silent speed away,

My soul shall view the ebbing tide

But know no sad dismay;