THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW-STORM. BY SEBA SMITH. "In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night time, while traveling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing." THE cold wind swept the mountain's height, A mother wandered with her child. As through the drifting snow she pressed, And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow; Her limbs were chilled her strength was gone. 'Oh, God!' she cried, in accents wild, 'If I must perish, save my child!' She stripped her mantle from her breast, And round the child she wrapped the vest, At dawn a traveler passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; He moved the robe from off the child, The babe looked up and sweetly smiled! THE PRAYER OF THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS. BY FRANCIS BARBOUR.* HARK! from the mountain rock, The armory of war is round, Where once in peace they trod, But nought is heard of the war's wild sound, They bow before their God. The voice of youth is sweet, From childhood's fervent heart. Manhood has bent his strength, In supplication now, The fire of battle has at length Fled from his noble brow: His might has failed, but he sheds no tears, "There are men of whitened brow" Among that mountain clan, The knee is bended now, That never bent to man, Though o'er their sires' once happy soil, Yet tyranny and age and toil, Cannot subdue their souls. Their life's short, stormy day Is waning to its close, And the soul's frail covering of clay Seeks for its long repose. Though like the rocks in their giddy height, They have felt the tempest's rage, The patriot's fire in its quenchless might, Still burns in the breast of age. THE PRAYER. Their fathers' spirits call From the cliffs of their rugged clime,They ne'er could brook a tyrant's thrall, In days of olden time ; And the sons shall guard, uncowered yet, To light their altar fires! And fearless they engage In the holy cause of truth, The majesty of age, And purity of youth. And mighty-holy is the hand, That guards their native sod ; 'Tis for the freedom of their land, They raise their souls to God. 3* 29 |