Power of Maternal Piety.—MRS. SIGOURNEY.

When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me knced down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the lays of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,-O, do not this wickedness, my son, Bor sin against thy God.""

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,

And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,

Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.

I plucked a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo,

And said a lonely prayer;

Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;

I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.

Youth came-the props of virtue reeled;
But oft, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congealed-
Blessed mother, was it thine?-

In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,

As from the lowly sod,

My son-my only one-beware!

Nor sin against thy God."

Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
My kindly warmth away,

And dimmed the tablet of the soul;-
Yet when, with lordly sway,

This brow the plumed helm displayed,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,—

That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!--
And now, though time hath set

His frosty seal upon my lot,

These temples feel it yet.

And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Savior dear,

Have led the wanderer there.

Niagara.-U. STATES REVIEW AND LITERARY GAZETTE. From the Spanish of Jose Maria Heredia.

TREMENDOUS TORRENT! for an instant hush

The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside
Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes
May see the fearful beauty of thy face.

I am not all unworthy of thy sight;

For, from my very boyhood, have I loved,-
Shunning the meaner track of common minds,—
To look on Nature in her loftier moods.

At the fierce rushing of the hurricane,

At the near bursting of the thunderbolt,

I have been touched with joy; and, when the sea,
Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and showed
Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved

Its dangers and the wrath of elements.

But never yet the madness of the sea

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.
Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves

Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current, then,
Shoots onward, like the irresistible course

Of destiny. Ah! terribly they rage

The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there! My brain
Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze
Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge
Sweeps the wide torrent: waves innumerable
Meet there and madden; waves innumerable
Urge on, and overtake the waves before,
And disappear in thunder and in foam.

They reach-they leap the barrier: the abyss
Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves.

A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets:

A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves
The mighty pyramid of circling mist
To heaven. The solitary hunter, near,

Pauses with terror in the forest shades.

God of all truth! in other lands I've seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw

Their fellows deep into impiety;

And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face
In earth's majestic solitudes.

Even here

My heart doth open all itself to thee.

In this immensity of loneliness,

I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear

The eternal thunder of the cataract brings

Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear.

Dread torrent! that, with wonder and with fear, Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks

Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself,

Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who supplies,
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs?

What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth?

The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand,
Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice
To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt
Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow.
I see thy never-resting waters run,
And I bethink me how the tide of time
Sweeps to eternity. So pass, of man,-

Pass, like a noon-day dream,-the blossoming days, And he awakes to sorrow. *

*

*

Hear, dread Niagara! my latest voice.

*

Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close
Over the bones of him who sings thee now

Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse,
Might be, like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile,

Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest,

Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds

To listen to the echoes of my fame.

Absalom.-N. P. WILLIS.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery-how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-

The proud, bright being, who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him-for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,

Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.

His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled