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When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below,
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.
Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his
bride,
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight.
Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled,
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,

And o: dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north :

Thou tokest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,

And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone;
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,
Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low, -
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride;
See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side;
His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein;
There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the
mane;
He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill:
God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill.

And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade—a shriek—but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak:
“I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee *

Power of JMaternal Piety.—MRs. SIGourn Ex.

“When I was a little clild, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kncel down beside he , and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt #.A., and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand apon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed, “O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.’”

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children, young and gay ?

Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,

And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,

Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.

I plucked a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo,
And said a lonely prayer;

Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;

I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.

Youth came—the props of virtue reeled;
But oft, at day’s decline,

A marble touch my brow congealed-
Blessed mother, was it thine —

In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,

Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,

As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,

“My son—my only one—beware
Nor sin against thy God.”

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
My kindly warmth away,

And dimmed the tablet of the soul;-
Yet when, with lordly sway,

This brow the plumed helm displayed,
That guides the warrior throng,

Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,

That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!—
And now, though time hath set

His frosty seal upon my lot,
These temples feel it yet.

And if I e”er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,

A mother’s hand, and gentle tear,

That pointed to a Savior dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

Miagara.-U.STATEs REv1Ew AND LITERARY GAzETTE. - From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia.

TREMENDous Tor RENT 1 for an instant hush
The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside
Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes
May see the fearful beauty of thy face.
I am not all unworthy of thy sight;
For, from my very boyhood, have I loved,—
Shunning the meaner track of common minds,-
To look on Nature in her loftier moods.
At the fierce rushing of the hurricane,
At the near bursting of the thunderbolt,
I have been touched with joy; and, when the sea,
Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed
Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved
Its dangers and the wrath of elements.
But never yet the madness of the sea
Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.

Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves
Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current, then,
Shoots onward, like the irresistible course
Of destiny. Ah! terribly they rage—
The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain
Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge
Sweeps the wide torrent: waves innumerable
Meet there and madden; waves innumerable
Urge on, and overtake the waves before,
And disappear in thunder and in foam.

They reach—they leap the barrier: the abyss
Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves.
A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets:
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves
The mighty pyramid of circling mist
To heaven. The solitary hunter, near,
Pauses with terror in the forest shades.

+ + +: + +: +

God of all truth ! in other lands I’ve seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw

Their fellows deep into impiety;
And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face
In earth’s majestic solitudes. Even here
My heart doth open all itself to thee.
In this immensity of loneliness,
I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear
The eternal thunder of the cataract brings
Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear.
Dread torrent! that, with wonder and with fear,
Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks
Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself,
Whence hast thou thy beginning 2 Who supplies,
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs?
hat power hath ordered, that, when all thy weighi
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth 2
The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand,
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice
To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt
Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow.
I see thy never-resting waters run,
And I bethink me how the tide of time
Sweeps to eternity. So pass, of man,—
Pass, like a noon-day dream,_the blossoming days,
And he awakes to sorrow. * * * *
Hear, dread Niagara! my latest voice.
Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close
Over the bones of him who sings thee now
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse,
Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile,
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, -
*:::::: raise my radiant forehead in the clouds
To listen to the echoes of my fame.

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THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,

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