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O ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: “ I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, “ I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: "On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; “Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream !" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found : From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name!

What is a mother's love?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
The warmest love that can grow cold ;

This is a mother's love.
To bring a helpless babe to light,

Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born;
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a mother's love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;
Then while it slumbers watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;

This is a mother's love,

To mark its growth from day to day,

Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray.

Of intellectual fire ;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks ;

This is a mother's love.

And can a mother's love

grow cold ?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,

Nor weep for grief- for joy?
A mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild ;

-Is this a mother's love?

Ten thousand voices answer No!”

Ye clasp your babes and kiss.; Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;

Yet, ah! remember this ;The infant, reared alone for earth, May live, may die,--to curse his birth ;

Is this a mother's love?

A parent's heart may prove a snare ;

The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,

Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,—destroy its mind : Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

Even with a mother's love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord, And poured upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is Eternity begun :

Behold that mother's love.

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,

By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear of God :
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin Eternity in time,

Taught by that 'mother's love.
That mother's love!—how sweet the name!

What was that mother's love?
- The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,

That kindles from above
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold :

This was that mother's love.

THE INFIDEL AND THE CHRISTIAN, The path to bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire?- The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died; The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health, but what when sick ? 0—then a text would touch him at the quick ; View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And, smothered in't at last, is praised to death!

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;

Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit,
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent,) she renders much ;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard !
His the mere tinsel, her’s the rich reward ;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home :
He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers,
She, safe in the simplicity of hers.

A FIELD FLOWER.

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS-DAY.

There is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field,

In gay but quick succession shine ;
Race after race their honours yield,

They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moons and stars their cours run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,

Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,

And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom,

On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns, the lily sheds perfume,

The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,

Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,

Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round,

It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground,

In honour of the dead.

The lambkin

crops

its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,

Light o'er the sky-lark's nest. 'Tis Flora's page;-—in every place,

In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace,

And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise ; The Rose has but a summer reign,

The Daisy never dies.

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