I'd shun the sparkling, fatal bowl, TO MY FLUTE. DEAR Flute,-companion of my youth,- Rest by my side, fair child of truth, Nought shall molest thee while I'm near. With fond eyes let me gaze on thee, My Flute a cheering voice will lend. If sorrow sometimes wounds my heart, The woods in my own native land, Have echoed back, "My Heart and Lute;" As oft by summer breezes fan'd I've sat, communing with my Flute. I've roam'd o'er ocean-wave with thee, When lightnings flashed, and all was drear; And there-e'en on the foaming sea, Thy silvery tones were doubly dear, In orange groves, and spicy bowers, O, I have prov'd thee every where, A soothing, ever constant friend ;Yet, 'mid earth's scenes of noise and care, How few their lone hours with thee spend. When from this tenement so frail, Shall soar my spirit far away; Could'st thou, dear Flute, my loss bewail, Methinks thoud'st weep each lonely day. Oh, cease to breathe of spirits fled, That lov'd thy "stilly night," to hear; But look not sad, oh, magic Flute ! I could not wish thee long be mute, When thou can'st raise the cheerful smile. Then, "Dorian Flute," thine aid impart, To dry thy master's tearful eye; Lend inspiration to his heart, Dispel each fear and painful sigh. *My two only brothers. MORNING IN SUMMER. "Sleeper come forth, the Sun is up." AWAKE! arise! the morning dawns, The Shepherd's up, and sings in joyful strains, The dreaming flowers are breathing on the air, The feathered minstrels soar on airy wing, Dream if thou must, upon the languid bed, 3 * THE MOTHER, FOR HER LOST ONE. DURING a long passage up the Mississippi river, in the spring of 1838, many passengers on board the steamboat were taken sick with small pox; and among the deaths was a beautiful child, whose young mother was obliged to have it torn from her and buried in a rough box near the side of a hill on the banks of the river near St. Louis. Fancy heard her tones of grief, thus: 1 There is a mound beside yon hill, And 'neath its steady gloom The song-birds chant a requiem by, "He was her idol son." No more can smile the happy boy, No more his little heart will joy, Thou know'st, oh Father kind, above, To lose the jewel of my love, And treasure of my care. My heart must breathe its burning grief, |