There is a loneliness Upon the mighty deep; And hurried thoughts upon us press, Our home-O, heavens-that word! My wife and little one Are with me as I go; And they are all beneath the sun With them, upon the sea Or land, where'er I roam, Heave, mighty ocean, heave! And blow, thou boisterous wind! Where'er we go, we cannot leave Our home and friends behind. Then come, my lovely bride, We heed not earthly powers, We heed not wind nor weather; For come what will, this joy is oursWe share it still together. And if the storms are wild, And we perish in the sea, We'll clasp each other and our child— And neither shall remain To meet and bear alone The cares, the injuries, the pain, And there's a sweeter joy, Danger nor death can e'er destroy Then wherefore should we grieve, Or what have we to fear? Though home, and friends, and life, we leave, Our God is ever near. If he who made all things, And rules them, is our own, Then every grief and trial brings Us nearer to his throne. Then come, my gentle bride, And come, my child of love; Sweep! mighty ocean, sweep! Ye winds, blow foul or fair, Our God is with us on the deep! Our home is everywhere. THE DYING BLIND BOY TO HIS MOTHER. MOTHER, I am dying now, Death's cold damps are on my brow! Sweet it is your voice to hear, Though dull and heavy grows mine ear; Never mother loved like you! Though your form I ne'er might see, That vision fill'd me with delight. Might I all their beauty view, Sun or moon I could not see, *It has been related of some who were recovered from early blindness, that they evidently expected to find those whom affection and kindness had endeared to them, the most beautiful to the eye. But love measured time for me: And kept at home-your helpless child! And I heard the streamlet flowing, Or with a low and plaintive moan, On a bed of wild flowers stretch'd, With my tender mother by, Than to be in life alone, When she and every friend were gone. THE VOICE AND TEMPLE OF NATURE. "T WAS Eve's pensive twilight, the valley was gray, And the golden streak'd west seem'd the memory of day; Between the dark trees almost deepen'd to night, And all was so still and so fragrant around, That the fragrance appear'd from the stillness to creep; It seem'd as if Nature reposed on the ground, The nightingale singing within her green cells, O, her notes sobb'd so true, it was Grief when she tells All the woes of her breast to the listening of Pity. Nought was heard when she paused, but the sound of the rill, |