There is a loneliness

Upon the mighty deep;

And hurried thoughts upon us press,
As onwardly we sweep!

Our home-O, heavens-that word!
A name without a thing!
We are e'en as a lonely bird,
Whose home is on the wing.

My wife and little one

Are with me as I go;

And they are all beneath the sun
I have of weal or wo.

With them, upon the sea

Or land, where'er I roam,
My all on earth is still with me,
And I am still at home!

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,
And come, my child of wo;
Since we have nought on earth beside,
What matters where we go?

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—
One grave shall hold the three!

And neither shall remain

To meet and bear alone

The cares, the injuries, the pain,
That we, my love, have known.

And there's a sweeter joy,
Wherever we may be :

Danger nor death can e'er destroy
Our trust, O God! in thee!

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;
What if we've nought on earth beside,
Our portion is above!

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!
Leave me not-each pang grows stronger,
Patient watch a little longer.

Sweet it is your voice to hear,

Though dull and heavy grows mine ear;
Wait and take my last adieu,—

Never mother loved like you!

Though your form I ne'er might see,
Your image was not hid from me—
Stamp'd on my adoring mind,
Beautiful, but undefined;
Ever fair and ever bright,

That vision fill'd me with delight.
Well I knew, whate'er might be
Those oft-praised forms I could not see,

Might I all their beauty view,
None of them would rival you.*
Life to me was sweet and dear,
While I lived thy tales to hear,
Told by you on wintry hearth,
All to make your blind boy mirth;
And I loved my voice to join
In chorus of those hymns divine,
By which you fondly taught your boy
To look to heaven with hope and joy.

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:
When your kiss my slumber broke,
Then I knew the morn had woke ;
When I heard the loud winds blow,
And I felt the warm fire glow,
Then I knew 't was winter wild,

And kept at home-your helpless child!
When the air grew mild and soft,
And the gay lark sang aloft,

And I heard the streamlet flowing,
And I smelt the wild flower blowing,
And the bee did round me hum,
Then I knew the spring was come.
Forth I wander'd with delight,
And I knew when days were bright;
When I climb'd the green hill's side,
Fancy traced the prospect wide;
And 't was pleasant when I press'd
The warm and downy turf to rest.--
Now I never more shall roam
The many paths around my home;
And you will often look in vain,
Nor hail your wandering boy again;
Never more on tiptoe creep,
Where he lies as if asleep;

Or with a low and plaintive moan,
Humming to himself alone,

On a bed of wild flowers stretch'd,
Starting when a kiss you snatch'd,
Till nature whisper'd 't was my mother,
And affection gave another!
But 't is sweeter thus to die,

With my tender mother by,

Than to be in life alone,

When she and every friend were gone.
Mourn not o'er me, broken-hearted,
For not long shall we be parted;
Soon in vales which ever bloom,
Which unfading flowers perfume,
In realms of life, of light, of joy,
You will meet your poor blind boy.

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,
The brook yet reflected the soft amber light.

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,
And the odor that rose was the breath of her sleep.

The nightingale singing within her green cells,
Made the woods sweetly mourn with the strains of
her ditty;

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,