THE MINISTER

AT THE FAMILY ALTAR. COMPOSED FOR THE REV. W. FOSS, OF LEEDS.

The father, still in manhood's prime, Was bowed in humble prayer; His partner, fair as when a bride, Was kneeling by him there.

Reclining on a sister's arm, The babe found sweet repose; While from the heart, in accents warm, The father's prayer arose.

And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew; By morning zephyrs fanned, A blooming group of loved ones, too, Was ranged on either hand.

As many children G.o.d had given, As good old Jacob had; That he might meet them all in heaven, How fervently he prayed.

What deep emotions filled my breast, That scene my spirit stirred; Will not that family be blessed, That prayer in heaven be heard?

Though oft his duty calls abroad, Salvation's news to bear, The father leaves his charge with G.o.d, Confiding in his care.

AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.

"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days."--_Ecel_. xi; 1.

Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons, By plague and famine frantic; The wail of wives and little ones Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.

O, heed the bitter piercing cry, That's pealing o'er the ocean; To us, to us, for aid they fly, As Israel fled to Goshen.

List! hear that sad and mournful sound, It is the parent sighing; Beside him, on the damp cold ground.

His darling ones are lying.

A nation sinking to the grave; How thick death's shafts are flying!

The loved, the lovely, and the brave, From want are daily dying.

They're calling to Columbia's sons, And to her happy daughters; Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones, And cast it on the waters.

THE LITTLE CLOUD.

All day the rain has patter'd down, In dense dark folds, clouds hang around, The humid air is dead and still, Thick vapors veil the distant hill.

But now, a little crimson cloud Beams from an opening in the shroud, Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads The azure vault above our heads.

Our fancy, while we gaze, takes wings And flits around earth's brighter things, Then whispers in our list'ning ears, "This earth is not all sighs and tears."

This cloud is like the robin's song, Whose notes were hushed all winter long, But comes to usher in the hours, Whose genial warmth revives the flowers.

Or like the south wind's gentle voice, Bidding all nature's works rejoice, Teaching the little birds, to sing A serenade to blooming spring.

Like budding flowers where thorns once grew, And beauty bursting into view Where all was dark, and drear, and wild, Nor pleasures in prospective smiled.

'Tis like the smile that beams through tears, When hope usurps the place of fears; Like health, new sparkling in the eye Of him, whom friends gave up to die.

Faint emblem of the glory shed Around the dying christian's bed, That prelude to the dazzling light Which bursts on his enraptured sight, When the freed spirit soars above, And faith is swallowed up in love.

LEWISTON,

AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.

It was a wild, sequestered spot, With here and there a humble cot; Yet, nature's richest robes were thrown Around those hills and valleys lone.

'Twas quiet, fair, and lovely, then, Though beasts of prey and savage men Roamed o'er those hills of graceful form, Whose trees for ages braved the storm, Yet, humbly stooping to behold The broad majestic stream, that rolled Through smiling mead and woody plain, Fast speeding onward to the main, Or, dashing from its rocky height, Proclaims the great Creator's might, Its deep toned music, strangely meet To mingle with the anthem sweet, That floated on each whisp'ring breeze, Which came, soft stealing through the trees That grew upon the winding sh.o.r.e, In giant ranks, in days of yore.

When genial spring her magic spell, Cast 'round each lovely woodland dell, And woke to life the warbling throng, While streamlets gaily danced along; If such a spot on earth be found, Those hills and vallies all around Smiled, like the paradise of G.o.d, When first by sinless beings trod.

Thus, rude, romantic, grand, sublime, Was Lewiston, in olden time.

But Art and Genius, pa.s.sing by, Saw this fair spot neglected lie, Then said, in deep emotion's tone, "Shall these bright waves go dancing on, Just like a thoughtless child at play, Who throws his strength and skill away?"

Anon, they raised the useful mills, The sparkling waters moved the wheels, And industry, with cheerful air, Was pleased to take her station there.

The proud old forest bowed, his head, With sullen frowns the savage fled, The timid beaver left the sh.o.r.e, The deer and moose were seen no more.

Rich cultivated fields appeared.

Neat tasteful dwellings soon were reared, In graceful ranks we see them stand, With s.p.a.cious streets on either hand.

Where once the Indian's wigwam stood, The factory, with its busy crowd, Dispenses blessings far and near, While rich and poor its products share.

Here merchandise, with eagle eyes, His own and others' wants supplies; And science, like a swelling tide, Diffuses knowledge far and wide.

The sweetly pealing sabbath bells, Now echo round those hills and dells, And call the villagers to meet Where they enjoy communion sweet, With Him who answers ev'ry prayer That humble faith can utter there.

There's music in those sabbath bells, This pleasing truth methinks they tell, That G.o.d is held in rev'rence there, And worshiped in His house of prayer.

In the fair background now are seen Sweet hills and dales, all robed in green, With here and there a pleasant grove Where every cla.s.s delights to rove; There, age sits down beneath the shade, Where he has oft in childhood strayed; There, youths and maidens often walk, To spend an hour in friendly talk; There, little children, too, are seen, Like lambs they gambol o'er the green; They wander there in summer hours In quest of birds' nests, fruit, and flowers.

The scholar loves this solitude, Where tumult never dares intrude; And here the stranger likes to roam, And think of loved ones left at home.

The saint, at twilight's pensive hour, Here seeks the sweet secluded bower; While whisp'ring zephyrs linger near, And waft to heaven the humble prayer.

And all who study nature's book, On this fair page delight to look; They'll range those hills and vallies o'er, And trace the river's winding sh.o.r.e.

Nor can they e'er forget to look Upon the little murm'ring brook, Which, like a silver belt, winds round The hill, with oak and elm trees crowned.

But that majestic waterfall, In grandeur still surpa.s.ses all.

Should Art and Genius there a.s.semble, With solemn awe they'd stand and tremble; Than all their works, they'd own this greater, And bow before the great Creator.

TWILIGHT MUSINGS.

BY AMELIA.

I wandered out one summer night, 'Twas when my years were few, The wind was singing in the light, And I was singing too.

One fleecy cloud upon the air, Was all that met my eyes, It floated like an angel there, Between me and the skies.

I clapped my hands and warbled wild, As here and there I flew, For I was but a careless child, And did as children do.

I heard the laughing wind behind, 'Twas playing with my hair; The breezy fingers of the wind, How cool and moist they were.