292 REBECCA S. NICHOLS [1840-50. with none was Mrs. Nichols in such perfect chord, as with the true and simple-hearted Otway Curry, and whose untimely grave she has bedewed with the holiest of woman's tears. Notwithstanding the palpable bias which we charge against the versatility of Mrs. Nichols's writings, there are in her several productions a range of subject and a felicity of handling, in various and dissimilar styles, which effectually contradict the idea that she was radically confined to any class of subject or mode of composition, as the following selections amply show her equally at home in the dainty dalliance of cradle song, the high-voiced minstrelsy of philosophy, the weird mysticisms of imagination, and the smothered soul-cry of anguish. With all these qualifications, we do not hes- itate to present our author as worthy of an honorable place beside the noblest of the children of song, in our Hesperian Republic of letters. THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. A BOON, oh, God of love ! Who dwelleth in the sphered realms afar. Who hath " a charm to stay the morning star In his lone course " above. Before thy throne we bow, Thou God, most infinitely holy ; just Are thy decrees to man ; what puny dust Dare brave thine angered brow ? A boon we humbly crave From thy right hand, that hath mysterious power To chain the rushing winds, renew the dy- ing hour. And animate the grave. Look down upon me, light Of the eternal heavens ! o'er ray soul Thy mantle spread, and with god-like con- trol. Dispel this darkling night. I feel thy presence now ; And thou wilt gaze upon my sinless boy. The star that centers all a mother's joy ; Look on his stainless brow. Shall aught like crimson shame E'er blot that lovely and unsullied page ? Shall feelings war, and sinful passions rage Within that fragile frame ? I would not, at his nod. That titled honors and a deathless name Should wait, nor wealth of land or fame — I ask not these, oh, God! Nor may ambitious breath E'er taint this pure young being with a hope That aught that appertains to dust can cope With stern, relentless Death ! But till the mouldering sod Shall cover him from view, may he be bold In thy defense — and may he ever hold Communion with his God ! THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD. Down deep in a hollow, so damp and so cold. Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown, The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould. Lying loose on a ponderous stone.
