From the New-Organ.
The Daughters Prayer.

BY T. A. SH EA.
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Why so pale that maiden's cheek;
Why that bosom lifted high,
AS beneath the heart would break
With the anguish Of its sigh?
She, alas! has lived to see,


Sight of woe-her fathers shame,
And his brow-oh misery!


Branded with drunkard's name.
At morn and evening, day by day,
In her chamber, at the shrine,
Does she for that father pray


With fervency divine.
Oh! she loves him truthfully,


He had been her morning star,
Ever guiding tempest-free


O'er life's treacherous seas atar.
But with slow and stealthy pace


Came the spirit-demon up,
And with smile of social grace


Bade him drain the festive cup.
That frail moment was the last


To her heart of cloudless light,
How could darkness come so fast
O'er a scene so fair and bright?
Swift destruction followed there;
Not relic, not trace
Of his virtues once so rare,


Linger'd in their dwelling place.
But that daughters prayer arose
In acceptance to the throne
And the mountain weight of woes
By her faith was oyerthrown.
Loving thus ,he Romans Daughter
Buoy'd him with her bosom's wave;
Sooth'd him with the breath he broug


her,


Fed him with the life he gave.
Spurn not then the mortal straying
From the safety of the fold;
But the gentle force Of praying
In this father sav'd behold!