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'Twas on a cliff whose rocky base

Baffled the briny wave; Whose cultured heights their verdant store

To many a tenant gave;

A mother, led by rustic cares,

Had wandered with her child ; Unweaned the babe, yet on the grass

He frolicked and he smiled.

With what delight the mother glowed

To mark her infant joy,
How oft would pause, amid her toil,

To view her beauteous boy.

At length, by other cares estranged,

Her thoughts the child forsook; Careless, he wandered o'er the

grass, Nor drew his mother's look.

Cropt was each flower that caught his eye,

When wandering o'er the green; He reached the cliff's uncertain edge

And pleased, surveyed the scene.

'Twas then, the mother from her toil

Turned, to behold her child
The urchin gone! her cheek was flushed,

Her wandering eye was wild.

She saw him on the cliff's rude brink

Now careless peeping o'er ;
He turned, and on his mother smiled,

Then sported as before.

Sunk was her voice, twas vain to fly,

'Twas vain the brink to brave; Oh! nature it was thine alone

To prompt the means to save..

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I have no mother !—for she died

When I was very young,
But her memory still, around my heart,

Like morning mists has hung.
They tell me of an angel form

That watched me while I slept,
And of a soft and gentle hand

That wiped the tears I wept.
And that same hand that held my own

When I began to walk,
And the joy that sparkled in her eyes

When first I tried to talk ;-
For they say the mother's heart is pleased

When infant charms expand
I wonder if she thinks of me

In that bright happy land:
For I know she is in heaven now

That holy place of rest-
For she was always good to me,

And the good alone are blest.
I remember, too, when I was ill,

She kissed my burning brow; And the tear that fell upon my

cheekI think I feel it now.

And I have still some little books

She learned me how to spell ;
And the chiding, or the kiss she gave,

I still remember well.
Ånd then she used to kneel with me,

And teach me how to pray,

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“ Daughter, do you remember, dear,

The cold, dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,-

A withered worm, you thought ?
I told you that Almighty power

Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,

Something would please you well.
Look at the chrysalis, my love,
An empty

shell it lies :
Now raise your wandering glance above,

To where yon insect flies !”
Oh, yes, mamma! how very gay

Its wings of starry gold-
And see! it lightly flies away

Beyond my gentle hold !

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Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient,

remained at his post in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.
The flames rolled on- he would not go,

Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :-"say, father, say

If yet my task is done ?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,

"If I may yet be
And”-but the booming shots replied-

And fast the flames rolled on.


Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,

My father! must I stay ?”
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy-oh! where was he ?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea.
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there,

Was that young faithful heart.



Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown

On nature's still convexity!
High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head

The banners flapped incessantly.
The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,
From rank to rank the cry is borne,

Arouse, for death or victory!"
The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then, what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!

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