Hymns, Songs, and Fables, for Young People | Page 7

relief,
O, quickly let us go!"
They went,--and many a stronger hand
Its ready succour gave;
They
brought the crew all safe to land,
And the cargo tried to save.
The night comes on, the night is dark,
More dark the billows seem;

They break against the ship, and hark!
The seamew's mournful
scream.
The boy upon his pillow lies,
In sweet repose he sinks;
And, as he
shuts his weary eyes,
On the poor ship he thinks.
The sun shines o'er the watery main
As it did the day before;
The
father and his son again
Are seated on the shore.
With the western wind full many a boat
Their white sails gayly fill,

They lightly o'er the blue waves float,--
But the gallant ship is still.
The sailors now the mournful wreck
Of masts and rigging strip;

The waves are playing o'er the deck
Of the sad and ruined ship.
A crow upon the top branch stood
Of a lone and blasted tree;
He
seemed to look upon the flood
With a gloomy sympathy.
The boy now looks up at the bird,
At the sinking vessel now;
He
does not speak a single word.
But a shade is on his brow.
Now slowly comes a towering wave,
And sweeps with triumph on;

It bears her to her watery grave,--
The gallant ship is gone.
Hushed is the ocean's stormy roar,
Still as an infant's joy;
The father
sits upon the shore
In silence with his boy.
Cohasset Shore, July, 1831.
CHARLEY AND HIS FATHER.

A BALLAD.
The birds are flown away,
The flowers are dead and gone,
The
clouds look cold and gray
Around the setting sun.
The trees with solemn sighs
Their naked branches swing;
The
winter winds arise,
And mournfully they sing.
Upon his father's knee
Was Charley's happy place,
And very
thoughtfully
He looked up in his face;
And these his simple words:--
"Father, how cold it blows!
What
'comes of all the birds
Amidst the storms and snows?"
"They fly far, far away
From storms, and snows, and rain;
But,
Charley dear, next May
They'll all come back again."
"And will my flowers come, too?"
The little fellow said,
"And all
be bright and new,
That now looks cold and dead?"
"O, yes, dear; in the spring
The flowers will all revive,
The birds
return and sing,
And all be made alive."
"Who shows the birds the way,
Father, that they must go?
And
brings them back in May,
When there is no more snow?
"And when no flower is seen
Upon the hill and plain,
Who'll make
it all so green,
And bring the flowers again?"
"My son, there is a Power
That none of us can see
Takes care of
every flower,
Gives life to every tree.
"He through the pathless air
Shows little birds their way;
And we,
too, are his care,--
He guards us day by day."
"Father, when people die,
Will they come back in May?"
Tears

were in Charley's eye,--
"Will they, dear father, say?"
"No! they will never come;
We go to them, my boy,
There, in our
heavenly home,
To meet in endless joy."
Upon his father's knee
Still Charley kept his place,
And very
thoughtfully
He looked up in his face.
REMEMBER THE SLAVE.
Mother! whene'er around your child
You clasp your arms in love,

And when, with grateful joy, you raise
Your eyes to God above,
Think of the negro mother, when
Her child is torn away,
Sold for a
little slave,--O, then
For that poor mother pray!
Father! whene'er your happy boys
You look upon with pride,
And
pray to see them when you're old,
All blooming by your side,
Think of that father's withered heart,
The father of a slave,
Who
asks a pitying God to give
His little son a grave.
Brothers and sisters! who with joy
Meet round the social hearth,

And talk of home and happy days,
And laugh in careless mirth,
Remember, too, the poor young slave,
Who never felt your joy,

Who, early old, has never known
The bliss to be a boy.
Ye Christians! ministers of Him
Who came to make men free,

When, at the Almighty Maker's throne,
You bend the suppliant knee,
From the deep fountains of your soul
Then let your prayers ascend

For the poor slave, who hardly knows
That God is still his friend.
Let all who know that God is just,
That Jesus came to save,
Unite in
the most holy cause
Of the forsaken slave.

HOME-SICKNESS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
Were I a wild, wild falcon,
I'd soar away on high,
And seek my
father's dwelling,
Beyond the far blue sky.
Against that well-known door then
I'd flap my wings with joy;
My
mother from the window
Sees and admits her boy.
"Dear son!" she'd say; "O, welcome!
How often has my heart

Longed sadly to embrace thee;
Now here behold thou art!"
Thus memory still is dreaming
Of what can never be.
My long-lost
home,--the loved ones,--
These eyes may never see.
HAPPINESS.
What is it makes the morning bright?
What gilds the evening hours?

What makes our hearts seem gay and light,
As if we trod on
flowers?
'Tis innocence that makes us gay,
Bids flowers grow everywhere;

Makes it bright sunshine every day.
And every evening fair.
What makes us, when we look above,
See smiling angels there,

And think they look on us in love,
As if we were their care?
'Tis
that the soul, all free from sin,
Glows like