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To snatch the child from instant death,

Some braved the threatening main, And to recall his fleeting breath

Tried every art in vain.

But when the corse had met her view,

Stretched on the pebbly strand, Roused from her exstacy she flew,

And pierced th' opposing band.

With tresses discomposed and rude,

Fell prostrate on the ground, To the infant's lips, her lips she glued,

And sorrow burst its bound.

Now throwing round a troubled glance,

With madness' ray inflamed,
And, breaking from her silent trance,

She wildly thus exclaimed:

'Heard ye the helpless infant scream?

Saw ye the mother bold? How, as she flung him in the stream,

The billows o'er him rolled?

'But soft, awhile—see! there he lies,

Embalmed in infant sleep;
Why fall the dew-drops from your eyes?

What cause is here to weep?

'Yes, yes—his little life is fled,

His heaveless breast is cold;
What tears will not thy mother shed,

When thy sad tale is told!

'Ah me! that cheek of livid hue—
That brow—that auburn hair—

Those lips where late the roses blew,
All, all my eon declare.

'Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein—

A voice in accents wild, Thunders to this distracted brain,

Matilda slew her child!'

She added not—but sunk oppressed,

Death on her eye-lids stole;
While from her grief-distracted breast,

She sighed her tortured soul.

Jerningham. STANZAS.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine,
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or, when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence like thy throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wonderous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through!

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light ray soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

DEATH OF A BELIEVER.

O think, that while you're weeping here,

His hand a golden harp is stringing;
And, with a voice serene and clear,
His ransomed soul, without a tear,
His Saviour's praise is singing!

Moore.

And think, that all his pains are fled,
His toils and sorrows closed for ever;

While He, whose blood for man was shed,

Has placed upon his servant's head
A crown that fadeth never!

And think, that (in that awful day,
When darkness sun and moon is shading)

The form that, 'midst its kindred clay,

Your trembling hands prepare to lay,
Shall rise to life unfading!

Then weep no more for him, who's gone
Where sin and suffering ne'er shall enter;

But on that great High Priest alone,

Who can for guilt like ours atone,
Your own affections centre!

For thus, while round your lowly bier

Surviving friends are sadly bending,
Your souls, like his, to Jesus dear,
Shall wing their flight to yonder sphere,

Faith lightest pinions lending.

And thus, when to the silent tomb
Your lifeless dust like his is given,

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