She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.
But then there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
I plucked a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side,
And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied.
That eve I knelt me down in woe,
And said a lonely prayer;
Yet, still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.
Years fled, aud left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Youth came-the props of virtue reeled ;
But oft, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congealed-
Blessed mother, was it thine ?
In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—
Yet still that hand so soft and cold
Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.
And, with it, breathed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,
"My son-my only one-beware!
Nor sin against thy God."
That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot,
And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,
These temples feel it yet.
And, if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.
NAME OF JESUS PRECIOUS,
Lewton.
How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear!
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear.
It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast; 'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And, to the weary, rest.
Dear Name! the rock on which I build;
My shield and hiding place;
My never-failing treasury, filled
With boundless stores of grace.
Jesus, my Shepherd, Guardian, Friend!
My Prophet, Priest, and King!
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my
Accept the praise I bring.
Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought; But when I see thee as thou art, I'll praise thee as I ought.
Till then I would thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath;
And may the music of thy name
Refresh my soul in death.
"TELL them I AM," Jehovah said
To Moses, while earth shook with dread;
And, smitten to the heart,
At once above, beneath, around,
All nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, "O Lord! THOU ART."
PAUL AT ATHENS.
Mrs. Sigourney.
COME to the hill of Mars, for he is there,
That wondrous man whose eloquence doth touch
The heart like living flame. With brow unblanched,
And eye of fearless ardour, he confronts
That high tribunal with its pen of flint,
Whose irreversible decree made pale
The Gentile world. All Athens gathers near,
Fickle, and warm of heart, and fond of change,
And full of strangers, and of those who pass
Life in the idle toil to hear or tell
Of some new thing. See, thither throng the bands
Of Epicurus, wrapped in gorgeous robe,
Who seem with bright and eager eyes to ask-
"What will this babbler say?" With front austere
Stand a dark group of Stoics, sternly proud,
And pre-determined to confute: yet still
'Neath the dark wrinkles of their settled brow
Lurks some unwonted gathering of their
powers,
As for no common foe. With angry frown
Stalk the fierce Cynics, anxious to condemn,
And prompt to punish, while the patient sons
Of gentle Plato bow the listening soul
To search for wisdom, and with reason's art
Build the fair argument. Behold the throngs
Press on the speaker, drawing still more close
In denser circles, as his thrilling tones
Speak of the God who "warneth everywhere
Men to repent," and of that fearful day
When he shall judge the world. Loud tumult wakes,
The tide of strong emotion hoarsely swells,
And that blest voice is silent. They have mocked
At Heaven's high messenger, and he departs
From the mad circle. But his graceful hand
Points to an altar, with its mystic scroll-
"The Unknown God."-Oh Athens! is it so ?
Thou who hast crowned thyself with woven rays
As a divinity, and called the world
Thy pilgrim worshipper, dost thou confess
Such ignorance and shame ?
Why, all thy hillocks and resounding streams
Do boast their Deity, and every house,
Yea, every beating heart within thy walls,
May choose its temple and its priestly train,
Victim and garland, and appointed rite;
Thou mak'st the gods of every realm thine own,
Fostering, with frantic hospitality,
All forms of idol-worship. Can it be
That still thou found'st not Him who is so near
To every one of us, in "whom we live,
And move, and have our being ?"
Of whom thy poets spake with child-like awe?
And thou, Philosophy, whose art, refined,
Did aim to pierce the labyrinth of fate,
And compass with a fine-spun sophist web
This mighty universe-didst thou fall short
Of the Upholding Cause?
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