The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven

Like floating gossamer!

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas,

Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,-
And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away;
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone;
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze,

And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore
Had sadder sights than these.

We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside!
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,

Not without strife he died!

And near him on the sea-weed lay,
Till then we had not wept,

But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept;

For her pale arms a babe had press'd
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp!

Her very tresses had been flung

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet, long streamers clung, All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,

Gleam'd up the boy's dead face;
Like slumbers, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;-
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony !

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part,
Its passionate adieu !
Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

TO THE SUN.

By J. G. PERCIVAL, an American poet.

CENTRE of light and energy! thy way

Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,

Far in the blue, untended and alone:

Ere the first waken'd airs of earth had blown,

On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light;

Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night,

And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquench'd and bright.

Thy path is high in heaven ;—we cannot gaze
On the intense of light that girds thy car;
There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar

To mingle with the equal light of star;
For thou, so vast to us, art, in the whole,

One of the sparks of night, that fire the air;

And, as around thy centre planets roll,

So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.

Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;

Thy light is hid,—and all things droop and mourn; Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles,

When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ; Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake;

All, that was once so beautiful, is torn

By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake.

The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers, and would die, but thy return
Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow

Of all the power, that brooded in the urn

Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air

Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there

Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.

The vales are thine :-and when the touch of spring
Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light
They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing
Dashes the water in his winding flight,

And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright,
And widens outward to the pebbled shore ;—

The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore.

The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood
Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream,
That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood

Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food
Of nations in its waters; so thy rays

Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud,

When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze

Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.

Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by ;-
Aloft, in thy eternal smile they lie

Dazzling but cold ;-thy farewell glance looks there,
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear

Into the high dark vault, a brow that still is fair.

The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues
Are pencill'd by thee; when thou bendest low,

Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues

Their waving folds with such a perfect glow Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw Shame on the proudest art;

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These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a sevenfold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march;
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form, with perfect curve, a lifted line,
Striding the earth and air;-man looks and tells
How Peace and Mercy in its beauty shine,
And how the heavenly messenger impels

Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells.

The ocean is thy vassal:-thou dost sway
His waves to thy dominion, and they go
Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way
Rising and falling in eternal flow :

Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow,
And take them wings, and spring aloft in air,

And change to clouds, and then dissolv'ng, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.

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In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls in glittering green around the isles,
Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell,
O! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,

I hurry o'er the waters when the sail

Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale

Comest off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale.

THE BOY.

By N. P. WILLIS.

THERE'S Something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy;
His dread of books and love of fun,

And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepress'd by sadness,-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all,—

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,-
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there ;-
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful, but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace,
Remembering a thousand things
Which pass'd me on those golden wings,
Which time has fetter'd now,-

Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,

And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,

That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess,-

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardour straining high,-