There was slight chance of reaching any shore;

And then they were too many, though so few
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,
Were counted in them when they got afloat.

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,

That the sail was becalmed between the seas, Though on the wave's high top too much to set,

They dared not take it in for all the breeze: Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet,

And made them bale without a moment's ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damped, And the poor little cutter quickly swamped. . There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,

And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view,

But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmatc told his sire, who threw

One glance at him, and said, “Heaven's will be done,
I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
The other father had a weaklier child,

Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild

And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,

As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, With the deep deadly thought that they must part. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,

And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes which the dull film half-glazed

Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth—but in vain.
The boy expired—the father held the clay,

And looked upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.

The TREASURES

OF THE

peep.

FELICIA

HEMANS.

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells,

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ?Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells

Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea !

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,

Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!

Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have

rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play :

Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more !

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar;

The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!

Give back the true and brave !

Give back the lost and lovely !-those for whom

The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless

gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown :

But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone

down; Dark flow thy tides o’cr manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown:

Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead ! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee;

Restore the dead, thou sea!

ALEXANDER'S Feast."

)

JOHN DRYDEN.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound

(So should desert in arms be crowned).
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair !
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touched the lyre :
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above
(Such is the power of mighty love !).
A dragon's fiery form belied the gód:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia pressed,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity! they shout around:
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound,

With ravished ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,

Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young :
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flushed with a purple grace

He shows his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath: he comes, he comes!

Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain :

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure ; Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again ;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew

the slain.
The master saw the madness rise ;
His glowing cheeks, bis ardent eyes ;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride.

He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,