VIRGINIA DARE.

As sweet that mother's loving tones

Their warbled music shed;
As though in proud baronial hall,

O'er silken cradle-bed,
No more the pomps and gauds of life

Maintained their strong control,
For holy love's new gift had shed

Fresh greenness o'er her soul.

And when the husband from his toil

Returned at closing day,
How dear to him the lowly home

Where all his treasures lay.
“() Ellinor! 't is nought to me,

The hardship or the storm,
While thus thy blessed smile I see,

And clasp our infant's form.”

No secret sigh o'er pleasures lost

Convulsed their tranquil breast,
For where the pure affections dwell

The heart hath perfect rest.
So fled the Summer's balmy prime,

The Autumn's golden wing,
And Winter laid his hoary head

Upon the lap of Spring.

Yet oft, with wily, wary step,

The red-browed Indian crept Close round his pale-faced neighbour's home,

And listened while they slept ;
But fierce Wingina, lofty chief,

Aloof, their movements eyed,
Vor courteous bowed his plumèd head,

Nor checked his haughty stridle.

VIRGINIA DARE.

John White leaped from his vessel's prow,

He had braved the boisterous sea,
And boldly rode the mountain-wave-

A stalwart man was he.
John White leaped from his vessel's prow,

And joy was in his eye;
For his daughter's smile had lured him on

Amid the stormiest sky.

Where were the roofs that flecked the green ?

The smoke-wreaths curling high ?
He calls-he shouts—the cherished names,

But Echo makes reply.
“ Where art thou, Ellinor! my child !

And sweet Virginia Dare! (, silver cloud, that cleaves the blue

Like angel's wing--say where?

“Where is the glorious Saxon vine

We set so strong and fair ? ”
The stern grey rocks in mockery smiled,

And coldly answered, “ Where!"
“ Ho! flitting savage! stay thy step,

And tell "_but, light as air,
He vanished, and the falling stream,

Responsive, murmured --" Where!"

So, o'er the ruined palisade,

The blackened threshold-stone,
The funeral of colonial hope,

That old man wept--alone!
And mournful rose his wild lament,

In accents of despair,
For the lost daughter of his love,
And young Virginia Dare. Mrs. L. II. Sigourney.

THE POETS SONG TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, love,

Have I been thine ?
How many days, thou dove,

Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind,

When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours !

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves ;
Some fears—a soft regret

For joys scarce known-
Sweet looks we half forget ;-

All else is flown !

Ah, with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing !
Look, where our children start,

Like sudden spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time.

Barry Cornwall.

A PARENT'S PRAYER.

Send down thy winged Anyel, God!

Amidst this night so wild,
Ard bid him come where now we watch,

And breathe upon our child.

She lies upon her pillow, pale,

And moans within her sleep,
Or wakeneth with a patient smile,

And striveth not to weep !

How gentle and how good a child

She is, we know too well,
And dearer to her parents' hearts

Than our weak words can tell.

We love-- we watch throughout the night,

To aid, when need may be;
We hope-and have despair'd at times,

But now we turn to Thee.

Send down thy sweet-soul'd Angel, God

Amidst the darkness wild,
And bid him soothe our souls to-night
And heal our gentle child!

Darry Cornerall.