"And on we drove, and on we drove, That fair young child and I; But his heart was as a man's in strength, "There was no bread within the wreck, Yet he murmured not, and cheered me "Still on we drove, I knew not where, "Still on we went, as the west wind drove, On, on, o'er the pathless tide; And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death, And the child was at my side. "And it chanced, as we were drifting on "The young child at the cheer rose up, And gave an answering word,— And they drew him from the drifting wreck As light as is a bird. “They took him gently in their arms, And put again to sea: 'Not yet! not yet!' he feebly cried, 'There was a man with me.' "Again unto the wreck they came, Where, like one dead, I lay, And a ship-boy small had strength enough To carry me away. "Oh, joy it was when sense returned, And to hear the child within his bed “I thought at first that we had died, "But they were human forms that knelt And men, with hearts most merciful, ""Twas a dismal tale I had to tell, But, even then, I told to none "For I loved the boy, and I could not cloud His soul with a sense of shame; "Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast A sinless orphan's name! So he grew to be a man of wealth, "And in after years when he had ships, He was a son to me; And God hath blessed him every where MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. DWELLERS by lake and hill! No crowd impedes your way, No city wall proscribes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening,—the fresh, dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd: The gray and ancient peaks, Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; And the low voice of water, as it makes, Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight. These are your joys! Go forth,— Give your hearts up unto their mighty power; For in His spirit God has clothed the earth, And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower. The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirits finds; Ye sit upon the earth Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirit silently. Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; Then go forth,-earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread ! THOMAS K. HERVEY was born on the banks of the river Cart, near the town of Paisley, in Scotland. He is the oldest of his family by his father's second marriage, and was taken to Manchester by his parents while yet an infant. In this town he resided many years, and passed a portion of them in the office of a solicitor there, as a preparatory step in his education for the bar: he was entered at one of the inns of court; but has not yet been "called;" having been compelled, probably, like most literary men, to the sacrifice of future prospects to present necessities. Mr. Hervey obtained a considerable portion of his reputation by contributing to various periodical works. A few years ago, he collected his poems into a volume, under the title of "the Poetical Sketch Book;" it consists chiefly of short pieces; their merit has been largely acknowledged,—and, although his appearance among the Poets was at an unfavourable period, his work has obtained considerable popularity. Mr. Hervey has also published the "Book of Christmas," a work which displays great industry and research; a poem, the "Devil's Progress," written after the model of the celebrated lines attributed to Southey and Coleridge; and the "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," which are introduced by an essay, giving a sketch of the history of that art from the earliest times. They were issued in numbers, but have recently been formed into a volume; they contain the choicest specimens of the British school, and each is accompanied by a poem from the pen of the Editor. We apprehend this publication was not successful; and regret it. While every other class of art has prospered in this country, but little encouragement has been given to sculpture. With two or three exceptions, its professors have been compelled to limit their chisels to "the making of busts ;" and where loftier attempts have been tried, they have been rarely profitable. Mr. Hervey's volume was calculated to direct towards it the attention of wealthy patrons. It was produced in a manner creditable to all parties; and could not fail to impress upon the public a more just estimate of the genius of our artists. Hitherto, their pecuniary advantages have been for the most part derived from the dead. The churches, and not the palaces, of England have been made the depositories of their works. A few noblemen have indeed given "commissions," and the good Earl of Egremont has filled |