More swiftly, and more swiftly yet, The gale is fresh-our sail is set And morn will soon be here. Literary Magnet. C. D. M. WOMAN'S PRAYER. SHE bowed her head before the throne But pure and strong is womanhood In faithfulness and prayer. The people of her father's land Had left their fathers' path, And God had raised his threat'ning hand Her voice arose with theirs-the few, Who still were faithful there; The king sat in his purple state But there was darkness in his fate, His sickening heart was probed; And priest and peer their vows preferred But whose on high was soonest heard? Wild war was raging-proudly rose And thousands met their country's foes, What heard the God of battles then? O strong is woman in the power And rich in her heart's sacred dower Literary Chronicle. DIRGE. SWEET be thy slumbers, child of woe! At the yew-tree's foot, by the fountain's flow !— Pallid snow-drop bloom; Duly there, at close of day, Let woman's tears bedew the clay! And dark ivy creep Mixed with fern and mosses grey, O'er thy last long sleep! C. D. M. THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. I saw him on the battle eve, When like a king he bore him! The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, No daunting thoughts came o'er him ;He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky! He looked on ocean,-its broad breast On earth,—and saw from east to west While rock and glen, and cave and coast, I saw him next alone; -nor camp, He, who with Heaven contended, He stood,-fleet, army, treasure gone, While wave and wind swept ruthless on, -- And XERXES in a single bark, Where late his thousand ships were dark, Must all their fury dare ; Thy glorious revenge was this, Thy trophy, deathless SALAMIS! M. J. J. STANZAS. BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye! Spirits whose smiles are-like thine-of the sky, But loving and loved as a child of the earth! Why is that tear? Art thou gone, in thy dream, To the valley far off, and the moon-lighted stream, Where the sighing of flowers, and the nightingale's song, Fling sweets on the wave, as it wanders along? And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone, I blame not the fate that has taken the rest, Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye! Oh! not for sunshine and hope would I part With the shade time has flung over all-but thy heart! Still art thou all which thou wert when a child, Friendship's Offering. TO AN EAGLE. BY J. PERCIVAL. BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing, Where wide the storms their banners fling, Thou sittest, like a thing of light, Thy pinions to the rushing blast O'er the bursting billow spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead. Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below, And on, with a haste that cannot lag, They rush in an endless flow. Again, thou hast plumed thy wing for flight And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, And thou leavest them all behind; Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, Fleet as the tempest wind. When the night-storm gathers dim and dark, With a shrill and a boding scream, Thou rushest by the foundering bark, Quick as a passing dream. |