TO MY MOTHER,

ON A BIRTH-DAY.

BY THE EDITOR.

THEY tell me I am FREE,

As though the thought were glad ;

But oh it burdens me,

And mother, I am sad. I feel that I am wearing

Too early, manhood's years— That time is onward bearing

To conflict and to tears.

I sighed in childhood's hours,
To rank among the FREE;
But where, oh! where, ye powers,
The freedom promised me?
For oh! the tie bound lightly

In youthful days I wore,

And sunshine beamed, how brightlyAs it will beam no more.

TO MY MOTHER.

FREE from my guileless plays
Beneath that hoar old tree;
Light of my early days,

Dear mother, and from THEE.
Free from thy guardian care;
On childhood's bended knee

To lisp no more thy prayer ;-
And THIS is to be FREE!

Nay! 'tis a chain I wear,

That binds me from my homeWhose links are toil and care, That gall me as I roam.

Of mad ones past me sweep,-
Ambition trumpeth loud

To Fame's unhallowed steep:
They bid me onward press,
Till thought itself grows wild,
My brain a wilderness-

My heart with earth defiled!

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I hear the thunderous boom,

I scent the battle's air; My leaping blood cries 'ROOMI'm with the thickest there!' 'STAY '-saith a voice within, 'Be not thy heart too strong; 'Court not life's battle din,

"Twill summon thee ere long.

'Seek higher mastery

'Than winning thee a name—

The tinsel blazonry

'Of an unlasting fame!

'Look where the foe would crush

'Thy nobler purposings,

The passions' maddening rush

Oh! gird us for that fight,

With earth-embattled powers,

Thou of Eternal Might—

In the fast-coming hours! When inward foes o'erwhelm,

Be Righteousness our mail, Salvation's hope our helm,

When fiery darts assail;

то MY MOTHER.

God-given strength, to wield
The spirit-piercing sword
Of the Eternal Word-

And Faith our battle-shield.
Thus panoplied, we yield

Not in the tumult strife,

Triumphant on the field
Of this stern, mortal life.

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*

Star, that in heaven burns,

The changeless and the true

The trembling needle turns,
And points at length to you.
Star in my heaven set,

Earth's lesser lights' above

My wandering heart is yet

Firm to thy ray of love!

JAN. 19, 1840.

THE DEAD.

BY GEORGE F. TALBOT.

THE mighty dead, earth's teeming brood,
Say, whither are they gone?

I move amidst life's busy crowd,
And feel almost alone.

Thou greedy earth, whose fertile rind
With human gore is drunk,

What is thy solid mould but men,
That 'neath thy soil have sunk ?

Oh! cruel mother, yield us back
Each much loved form and face,
To the mute yearnings of our love
Give back our ravished race.