Behold the Book,-whose sacred truths to spread, Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide. THE PARTING. "One struggle more, and I am free." Byron. LEAVE me, oh! leave me!-unto all below, Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell, Thou makest these mortal regions, whence I go, Too mighty in their loveliness-farewell, That I may part in peace. Leave me! thy footstep with its lightest sound, The very shadow of thy waving hair, Wake in my soul a feeling too profound, Too strong, for aught that loves and dies, to bear. Oh! bid the conflict cease! I hear thy whisper-and the warm tears gush Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart! Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush, The still submission from my thoughts depart. Dear one! this must not be. The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, The beauty of our free and vernal days, Our communings with sea, and hill, and skyOh! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze! Thou art all earth to me! Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee; Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom, They speak of life, of summer, and of thee Too much-and death is here! Doth our own spring make happy music now, If I could but draw courage from the light Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless! -Not now! 'twill not be now!-my aching sight Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness Bearing all strength away! Leave me! thou comest between my heart and Heaven! I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die: Why must our souls thus love, and thus be riven! -Return!-thy parting wakes my agony! Oh! yet awhile delay! MRS. HEMANS. THE YOUNG MOTHER. SHE stands amidst the glittering crowd, The same in form and face, As when at first her sweet cheek glow'd, The same bright tresses bind her brow, She looks the same young radiant bride Yet there's a change-her eyes are still Most beautiful and bright; But they seem beneath their lids, to fill Her voice is sweet, and rich, and low, But 't is grown more like a river's flow, Still, still she smiles as radiantly, "Tis not the brilliant scene around Now, ever and anon, her eye Is fix'd on vacancy, And she seems to listen earnestly, In fancy comes an infant's wail, And the splendid hall seems cold and pale, And though the scene is very fair, And thinks the hour to take her there She, who once watch'd the time in pain, Oh, sure she might be gayer then, ANON. A MOTHER'S LOVE. HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea, Hast thou talk'd with the blessed of leading on Evening and morn hast thou watch'd the bee The bee for herself hath gather'd and toil'd, Hast thou gone with the traveller, in thought, afar, There is not a grand inspiring thought, And ever, since earth began, that look There are teachings on earth and sky and air, MRS. HEMANS. BURNING LETTERS. FIRE, my hand is on the key, This-in childhood's rosy morn, This was friendship's cherish'd pledge- Creeping on its gilded edge, May the blaze be live and warm! These the letter and the token, |