Tell Zion's mournful daughter O'er kindred bones she'll tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter Shall hide but half her dead." But soon shall other pictured scenes When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine And on her mountains beauteous stand MOORE. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full well the school-boy knows, Go put thou forth thy small white rose: I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow Thy satin-threaded flowers; For dull the eye, the heart is dull Thy tender blossoms are! How rich thy branchy stem! While silent flowers are falling slow, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. ELLIOT. STEAM IN THE DESERT. "GOD made all nations of one blood," Lo, interchange is happiness!— The shipless have no pen! What deed sublime by them is wrought? What type have they of speech or thought? What soul-ennobled page? No record tells their tale of pain! Th' unwritten History of Cain Is theirs from age to age! Steam!-if the nations grow not old Why dost not thou thy banner shake O'er sealess, streamless lands, and make If rivers are but seeking rest, E'en when they climb from ocean's breast If good for good is doubly blest- Yes, let the wilderness rejoice, The voiceless campaign hear the voice That waste, and want, and war may cease! And all men know that Love and Peace Are-good for good exchanged! 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; While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies and leaves Old England on the lee. ELLIOT "O for a soft and gentle wind," I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snorting breeze, And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon horned moon, The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free, Our heritage the sea. CUNNINGHAM. LOWLINESS OF MIND. O! I would walk A weary journey, to the farthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Are but the transient pageants of an hour; KIRK WHITE. MY MOTHER. AND canst thou, mother, for a moment think, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GLORY. O HOW weak Is mortal man! how trifling-how confined Dreams of eternal honours to his name; |