SPIRIT VOICES.

BY GEORGE W. LAMB.

In the silent greenwood glade,
In the dim old forest's shade,
By the rushing river,—

There are sweet low voices singing,
Music on the soft breeze flinging,
And they haunt me ever.

In the star-crowned, quiet night,
Ringing from the moonlit height,
Whispering from the vale,
From the swinging, leafy bough,
And the dewy flowers below,
Murmuring still their tale.

"Tis of days long passed away,
'Tis of forms now cold in clay
These sweet voices tell.

At the memories they bring,
Tears and smiles, together, spring
From the heart's deep swell.

Old friends again about me stand,
And once more the clasping hand
And the kindling eye,

Better far than words can do

Tell that hearts are warm and true As in days gone by.

And, as these sweet visions throng, Joyous laughs with many a song On the charmed air swell,

And strike upon the dreaming brain Till the old time seems back againThe old time loved so well.

Ever thus in greenwood glade

And in the deep forest shade

And by the rushing river,

There are sweet, low voices singing,

Music to the soft breeze flinging,

And they haunt me ever.

TO MY MOTHER,

ON A BIRTH DAY.

BY THE EDITOR.

THEY tell me I am FREE,

As though the thought were glad; But oh! it burdens me,

And mother, I am sad.

I feel that I am wearing

Too early, manhood's yearsThat time is onward bearing

To conflict and to tears.

I sighed in childhood's hours,
To rank among the FREE;
But where, oh! where, ye powers,
The freedom promised me?
For oh! the tie bound lightly

In youthful days I wore,

And sunshine beamed, how brightly!

As it will beam no more.

FREE-from my guileless plays

Beneath that hoar old tree; Light of my early days,

Dear mother, and from THEE. Free from thy guardian care; On childhood's bended knee To lisp no more thy prayer;— And THIS is to be FREE!

Nay! 'tis a chain I wear,

That binds me from my home

Whose links are toil and care,
That chafe me as I roam.

The stern decree is past,

They say I am 'my own ;'

My lot is earth-ward cast-
I tread the world alone.

No! not alone-a crowd

Of mad ones past me sweep,Ambition trumpeth loud

To Fame's unhallowed steep: They bid me onward press,

Till thought itself grows wild,

My brain a wilderness

My heart with earth defiled!

то MY MOTHER.

I hear the thunderous boom,

I scent the battle's air;

My leaping blood cries 'ROOM-
I'm with the thickest there!'
'STAY'-saith a voice within,

'Be not thy heart too strong; 'Court not life's battle din,

''Twill summon thee ere long.

Seek higher mastery

'Than winning thee a name

The tinsel mockery

Of an unlasting fame!

'Look where the foe would crush

Thy nobler purposings,

The passions' maddening rush

'The strife of earthly things.'

Oh! gird us for that fight,

With earth-embattled powers,

Thou of Eternal Might

In the fast-coming hours! When inward foes o'erwhelm,

Be Righteousness our mail, Salvation's hope our helm,

When fiery darts assail;

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