THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE moon 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 vow'd
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 pass'd 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, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd 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 bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls.

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd,
The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
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

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke 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 where 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, e'en 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

Turn'd 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 shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings 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?
Shall 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 may fail me,

As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks,

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength. - Farewell!

SABBATH SONNET.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!

The halls, from old heroic ages gray,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread

With them those pathways,

Of sickness bound;

to the feverish bed

yet oh, my God! I bless

Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. *

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him as a mantle cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,

With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud;
But far more gloriously to earth made known,
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone,
Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll;
Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms forever to inspire,

With the deep worship of a living soul.

Dublin, April, 1835.

*This and the preceding, are the two last strains, the dying strains of this sweet Poetess. Truly her mind seemed breathing inspired notes, while her pure spirit was stealing gently away to join the angelic choir in that "better land," where sorrow and death may not enter."

JOANNA BAILLIE.*

If the genius of Mrs. Hemans is best characterized by the "Glorious Rose," this "sister of Shakspeare," as she has been significantly styled, may be likened to the splendid Aloe flower, that opens but once in a century; so rare, indeed, that it is regarded rather as a wonder, than a blessing.

The power of Miss Baillie's genius seems concentrated in one burning ray — the knowledge of the human heart. She has illustrated this knowledge, with the cool judgment of the philosopher, and the pure warm feelings of the woman, in her celebrated Plays on the Passions. We have sometimes doubted, whether, in selecting the Drama as her path of literature, she judged wisely; we have thought that as an essayist or a novelist she might have made her great talents more effective in that improvement of society which she seems to have had so deeply at heart, and have won for herself, if not so bright a wreath of fame, a more extensive and more popular influence.

In dramatic composition, however, Joanna Baillie is unrivalled by any female writer; and she is the only woman

* There is an American edition of the "complete poetical works of Miss Baillie," published at Philadelphia, in one large elegant volume. This, however, does not comprise her last " Plays on the Passions."