Of snowy sands, and rounded pebbles, walked, Watching the coming of the evening tide, Rising with every ripple, as it kissed The gravel with a softly-gurgling sound, And still advancing up the level shore, Till, in his deep abstraction, it flowed round His foot-prints, and awoke him. When he came Where a long reef stretched out, and in its bays, Scooped from the shelving rocks, received the sea, And held it as a mirror deep and dark,
He paused, and, standing then against the ship, He gave his signal. Soon he saw on board The stir of preparation; they let down
A boat, and soon her raised and dipping oars Flashed in the setting light, and round her prow The gilt sea swelled and crinkled, spreading out In a wide circle; and she glided on
Smoothly, and with a whispering sound, that grew Louder with every dipping of the oars,
Until she neared the reef, and sent a surge
Up through its coves, and covered them with foam. He stepped on board, and soon they bore him back To the scarce rocking vessel, where she lay Waiting the night wind. On the deck he sat, And looked to one point only, save, at times, When his eye glanced around the mingled scene Of beauty and sublimity. Meanwhile
The sun had set, the painted sky and clouds Put off their liveries, the bay its robe
Of brightness, and the stars were thick in heaven.
They looked upon the waters, and below
Another sky swelled out, thick set with stars,
And chequered with light clouds, which, from the north, Came flitting o'er the dim-seen hills, and shot
Like birds across the bay. A distant shade
Dimmed the clear sheet; it darkened, and it drew Nearer. The waveless sea was seen to rise
In feathery curls, and soon it met the ship,
And a breeze struck her. Quick the floating sails Rose up, and drooped again. The wind came on Fresher; the curls were waves; the sails were filled Tensely; the vessel righted to her course,
And ploughed the waters: round her prow the foam Tossed, and went back along her polished sides, And floated off, bounding the rushing wake,
That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern. The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched, Till the yards cracked. She bent before its force, And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves. Straight out she went to sea, as when a hawk Darts on a dove, and, with a motionless wing, Cuts the light, yielding air. The mountains dipped Their dark walls to the waters, and the hills
Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white point, On which a light-house blazed, alone stood out
In the broad sea; and there he fixed his eye,
Taking his last look of his native shore.
Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong,
And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were heaved In high and rolling billows. All were glad, And laughed, and shouted, as she darted on, And plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high Over the deck, as when a strong, curbed steed Flings the froth from him in his eager race. All had been dimly star-lit; but the moon, Late rising, silvered o'er the tossing sea, And lighted up its foam-wreaths, and just threw One parting glance upon the distant shores.
They meet his eye; the sinking rocks were bright, And a clear line of silver marked the hills, Where he had said farewell. A sudden tear Gushed, and his heart was melted; but he soon Repressed the weakness, and he calmly watched The fading vision. Just as it retired
Into the common darkness, on his eyes
Sleep fell, and, with his looks turned to his home, And-dearer than his home-to her he loved,
He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams Bright, and too glad to be realities.
Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams, Till, from the bosom of the boundless sea,
Now spreading far and wide without a shore,
The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke.
A Thanksgiving Hymn.-HENRY WARE, JR.
FATHER of earth and heaven, Whose arm upholds creation,
To thee we raise the voice of praise, And bend in adoration. We praise the Power that made us; We praise the love that blesses; While every day that rolls away Thy gracious care confesses.
Life is from thee, blessed Father; From thee our breathing spirits; And thou dost give to all that live The bliss that each inherits. Day, night, and rolling seasons, And all that life embraces,
With bliss are crowned, with joy abound, And claim our thankful praises.
Though trial and affliction
May cast their dark shade o'er us, Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow
Of light on all before us.
That love has smiled from heaven
To cheer our path of sadness,
And lead the way, through earth's dull day,
To realms of endless gladness.
That light of love and glory
Has shone through Christ, the Savior,
The holy Guide, who lived and died That we might live forever:
And since thy great compassion
Thus brings thy children near thee,
May we to praise devote our days, And love as well as fear thee.
And when Death's final summons
From earth's dear scenes shall move us,From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes, From all that know and love us,
O, then, let hope attend us!
Thy peace to us be given!
That we may rise above the skies,
And sing thy praise in heaven!
The Temple of Theseus.*-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.
UNCRUMBLED yet, the sacred fane uprears Its brow, majestic in the storm of years: Time has but slightly dared to steal away The marks of beauty from its columns gray; Each sculptured capital in glory stands, As once the boast of those delightful lands,
Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down, Some baser monument of art to crown.
Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore, That once the crowd beheld but to adore, Rich with the proud exploits of Æthra's son, And lofty conquests by Alcides won;-
The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear; The passing pilgrim pauses to revere; The pensive poet views its columns proud, And Fancy hears again the anthem loud, From kindling bards, that once arose on high,- A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky.
The inner shrine no more protects the slave, The holy walls no more the oppressed can save, The wretch no longer safety there can claim, And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name; Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb, His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.
To holier uses rise those walls on high, And holier anthems murmur on the sky; The shrine is crumbled to its native soil, And pagan grandeur given as a spoil;
No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane, And none to him prolong the adoring strain; Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven,
To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given.
*The temple of Theseus at Athens-one of the most beautiful and entire remains of ancient art-was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was.
On the Death of a beautiful young Girl.- CONNECTICUT MIRROR.
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus; when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the dust."
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings, With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this: One moment round about us their angel lightnings play; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth:
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute.
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with all that's best below: The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go;- The bird that sings the sweetest; the vine that crowns the rock; The glory of the garden; "the flower of the flock.”
'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear: A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love; Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.
Lines to a Lady of great musica. Talent.-MRS CHILD.
THANKS, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell
Has waked my soul to sound,
And, deep within a sealed well,
A spring of joy is found.
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