They sleep in secret,-but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

"Pregar, pregar, pregar,

Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?"

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest work to leave-
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;

ALFIERI.

Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,

Heaven's first star alike ye see

Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

"Von Bäumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm' spielen, du freundliches Kind!"

LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

O! WHEN wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?

The Summer-birds are calling
Thy household porch around,

And the merry waters falling

With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours-

But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wander'd long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song,

In thine alter'd heart hath died.

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

185

Thou hast flung the wealth away,

And the glory of thy Spring; And to thee the leaves' light play Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return ?—
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O'er the image of the sky,

Which the lake's clear bosom wore,

Darkly may shadows lie—

But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again

To the freedom of the woods, To the birds' triumphant strain, To the mountain solitudes!

But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air,
There are young sweet voices borne-
Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father's board

There is kept a place for thee;

And, by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be,

Still hath thy mother's eye,

Thy coming step to greet,

A look of days gone by,

Tender and gravely sweet.

Still, when the

prayer is said,

For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shedOh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest-bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-O! well may their hearts rejoice—
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice!
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,

Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict-cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning-bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods,
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awaken us all:
One! but to sever'd and distant dooms.
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.

["Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life."

CHANNING.

Joy is upon the lonely seas,
When Indian forests pour