THE HEBREW MOTHER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her First-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed
Unto the Temple-service. By the hand
She led him; and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God!

So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reached,
The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung, even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide

Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song." Alas!" she cried,

"Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?—

"How the lone paths retrace, were thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, even as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake!

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child?-will He not hear thee Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Will he not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God!—the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

"Therefore, farewell!-I go! my soul

As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks!

may

fail me,

But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me,
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

The Amulet.

SONNET.

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE.

LONE cot! most placidly in thy green nest
Thou cowerest, like the white bird of the wood;
Birds and high trees are all thy neighbourhood,
And silence is the joy thou lovest best.

I've seen thee, in the mantling evening drest,
Wear thy wan beauty so-that oh! I would
Never abandon that delightful mood

In which I found thee in thy radiant nest.

Thou wert to me a dream of days to come;

The fairy spirit of a visioned spot,

Where hope and love might build themselves a home,
And bid long farewell to a worldly lot.

The dream was idle as the ocean foam-
Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely cot!

J. H. R.

BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY.

Ask ye the hour I love the best? -
The hour of silence and of rest!
Oh! meet me in some sylvan bower,
When day throws off his robes of power,
And, sinking in the regal west,
A king-but still a king at rest,
Reclines behind the "dark hill's side,"
Or hides beneath the waters wide,
From vain pursuit and mortal ken,
The flashing of his diadem!

Then lift thine eyes-and if there be
The spell abroad so sweet to me,
The heavens will be of silver hue,
The air be soft and silent too;

And flowers seem listening on the stem,
To streams that whisper unto them!
And every leaf will tremble there,
If only breathed on by the air!

And stars will steal upon the view,

Like happy spirits, shining through

Their heaven, and this world's veil of blue;

Rejoicing to behold again

The dwellings of the sons of men.

If there be sounds--they will but be
Like crystal droppings from a tree,
Or far-off greenwood melody.
Then will the maiden moon be seen,
In chastened lustre o'er the green;
Casting a tender, trembling gaze,
On every object 'neath her rays!
A holy paleness on the tower;
A tint more lovely on the flower;
A dimpled light on "waters flowing;
On vale and hill, a radiance glowing;

Till all around her seem to be
"Sleeping in bright tranquillity."
If in thine eye the placid tear,
Unbidden, yet unchecked, appear,—
If thought, thy leading star, bring on
Thy friends far distant, one by one,
While memory sings, in syren strain,
Of dreams thou ne'er must dream again;-
Behold the hour I love the best :-
The hour of silence and of rest.

THE FAMILY PICTURE.

BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE HUNT, BART.

WITH work in hand, perchance some fairy cap,
To deck the little stranger yet to come;
One rosy boy struggling to mount her lap-
The eldest studious, with a book or map-
Her timid girl beside, with a faint bloom,
Conning some tale—while, with no gentle tap,
Yon chubby urchin beats his mimic drum,
Nor heeds the doubtful frown her eyes assume.
So sits the mother! with her fondest smile
Regarding her sweet little ones the while.
And he, the happy man! to whom belong
These treasures, feels their living charm beguile
All mortal cares, and eyes the prattling throng
With rapture-rising heart, and a thanksgiving tongue!

G