And the mariner wakes no more;

Lift high the lamp that never fails,
To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child!

An outcast though he be,

From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled,

And the country of the free;

Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,
For what home on earth has he?

Light for the hills of Greece!
Light for that trampled clime

Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease
Ere it wrecked the boast of time;

If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol-train,

The flame of the suttee is dire and red,
And the fakir faints with pain,

And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges laved in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armor when Death invades ;

Hark! Hark!-'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh
From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales!

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,

And her kidnapped babes the mother wails

'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exiled from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roam from place to place,

Benighted and oppressed;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base;

Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darkened earth!

Ye blessed, its beams who shed,

Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,

Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,

Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,

And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,

For the aged to rest his weary head.

The Fear of Madness.*-LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THERE is a something which I dread;
It is a dark, a fearful thing;

It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death,-'tis more,—
It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still,
A tenant of its lowly bed;
But let not dark delirium steal-

The Matin Hour of Prayer.-ANONYMOUS.

THIS cool and fragrant hour of prime,
Unvexed by life's intrusive care,

My matin hour of praise shall be,

Sweet, solitary praise, and prayer.

*These lines, expressing her fears of insanity, were written by this interesting girl while confined to her bed in the last stage of consumption. They were unfinished, and the last she ever composed.-ED.

"Twill gird my spirit for the fight,

The glare, the strife, of this world's way; Weak, tempted, weary, lone, and sad,— 'Tis never, never vain to pray.

This cool and fragrant hour of prime;
The silent stars are fading quite;
The moist air gently stirs the leaves,
Dew-laden, to the breaking light.

The stillness, the repose, the peace,
They win the quiet soul away,
To visit that Elysian world,

Where breaketh an eternal day.

Ere falls the stealing step of dawn,

The night's soft dew on her brown wings, Upriseth from her nest the lark,

And, soaring to the sunlight, sings.

Thus may my soul sing on, and soar

Where sight tracks not her flight sublime, Morn, noon, sweet eve, and ever in

This cool and fragrant hour of prime.

For, though the world enclose me round,
Strong Faith can carry me abroad,
Where shines my home,-Jerusalem,
The glorious dwelling-place of God!

Then let my soul sing on, and soar
Above the world, beyond all time,
And dwell in that pure light, and breathe
The air from that celestial clime.

Sing on and soar, sing on and soar,

Till, through the crystal gates of heaven,

No longer closed in upper skies,

Thou enter in to sing, Forgiven!

Song.* FROM YAMOYDEN.

SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light
As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray;
Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright

As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray.

O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast;
In the wild wood Sleep cradles in roses thy head;
But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed,

He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father! why stays he so long

On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song,

So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone.

He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe,

Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry, The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true,

And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!

The Power that is round us-whose presence is near,
In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul-
Protect that lone bark in its lonely career,

And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll!

Solitude.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught,
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife
And fever of the world. I thought to be

*We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its character with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the reader will find in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.-ED.

There without witness. But the violet's eye
Looked up upon me,—the fresh wild-rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek
And there were voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told

Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell. The tireless spider threw
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare.
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought
To be alone, and silent in thy realm,

Spirit of life and love! It might not be !

There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,

He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round

Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,

Are social and benevolent; and he

Who oft communeth in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,

Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

Bishop Ravenscroft.-GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE. "For he was a good man."

THE good old man is gone!
He lies in his saintly rest,
And his labors all are done,

And the work that he loved the best.
The good old man is gone-

But the dead in the Lord are blessed!

I stood in the holy aisle,

When he spake the solemn word,

That bound him, through care and toil,
The servant of the Lord: