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Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies,
Points to the light that changes not, in heaven.

Farewell! Heaven smile propitious on thy course,
And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms
Of love paternal. Yes, and more than this-
Blessed be thy passage o'er the changing sea
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept
The light of joy; the waves roll gently on
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe
To meet in peace thine other Father-GOD.

New England.—J. G. PERCIVAL.

HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;

The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:

No slave is here; our unchained feet
Walk freely as the waves that beat
Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;

They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;-
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave,
They sternly bore

Such toils as meaner souls had quelled;
But souls like these, such toils impelled

To soar.

Hail to the morn, when first they stood
On Bunker's height,

And, fearless, stemmed the invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mowed in ranks the hireling brood,
In desperate fight!

O, 'twas a proud, exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay

In light.

There is no other land like thee,

No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;

And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And Slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppressed:

All, who the wreath of Freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine,
Are blessed.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home;-and leant on Heaven
Our hand.

The Damsel of Peru.-BRYANT.

WHERE olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
There sat, beneath the pleasant shade, a damsel of Peru:
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her snowy arm and of her glossy hair;
And sweetly rang her silver voice amid that shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook

"Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung,

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 bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north ;

Thou lookest 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 "

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Power of Maternal Piety.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

"When I was a little cl ild, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kncel down beside he, and place her hand upon my head, while stie 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 myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon 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,

66

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.

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