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THE MOTHER AND CHILD
'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,
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
Her wandering eye was wild.
She saw him on the cliff's rude brink
Now careless peeping o'er ;
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..
I have no mother !—for she died
When I was very young,
Like morning mists has hung.
That watched me while I slept,
That wiped the tears I wept.
When I began to walk,
When first I tried to talk ;-
When infant charms expand
In that bright happy land:
That holy place of rest-
And the good alone are blest.
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 ;
I still remember well.
And teach me how to pray,
“ Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,
A withered worm, you thought ?
Could break that withered shell,
Something would please you well.
shell it lies :
To where yon insect flies !”
Its wings of starry gold-
Beyond my gentle hold !
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;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A proud though childlike form.
Without his father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud :-"say, father, say
If yet my task is done ?"
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be
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.
My father! must I stay ?”
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
The boy-oh! where was he ?
With fragments strewed the sea.
That well had borne their part-
Was that young faithful heart.
THE BATTLE OF BUS&CO.—Anonymous.
Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
On nature's still convexity!
The banners flapped incessantly.
Arouse, for death or victory!"