It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more How in the grave And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his Toiling, rejoicing, eyes. sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Longfellow. THE GREATNESS AND GLORY OF GOD. I. THOU art, O Lord, the life and light II. When day, with parting beam, delays And we can almost think we gaze III. When night, with wings of starry gloom, IV. When youthful Spring around us breathes, T. Moore. THE SONG OF MIRIAM. SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave; Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide; Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free! T. Moore. HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.1 THE bark that held a prince went down, He lived-for life may long be borne, Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again! There stood proud forms before his throne, But which could fill the place of one, Before him passed the young and fair, In pleasure's reckless train; But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair— It is recorded of Henry the First, that, after the death of his son Prince William, who perished by shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. He sat where festal bowls went round; A murmur of the restless deep A voice of winds that would not sleep- Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace And strangers took the kinsman's place Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Fresh hopes were born for other years He never smiled again! Mrs. Hemans. THE MARINER'S SONG. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "Oh for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high, my boys, The world of waters is our home, There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, Allan Cunningham. THE STORMY PETREL. A THOUSAND miles from land are we, The hull which all earthly strength disdains, Up and down! up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, Amidst the flashing and feathery foam The stormy petrel finds a home; |