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,- We saw her treasures cast away; And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore We saw the strong man, still and low, Not without strife he died! And near him on the sea-weed lay, But well our gushing hearts might say, For her pale arms a babe had press'd 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; Deep in her bosom lay his head, Oh, human love! whose yearning heart There is some home for thee, 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 To mingle with the equal light of star; 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; 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 And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright, 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, Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food 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 Dazzling but cold ;-thy farewell glance looks there, Into the high dark vault, a brow that still is fair. The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues 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; * * * * * * These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal:-thou dost sway Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, 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. * * In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles 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, And in his clear and ready smile, 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, Things that came o'er me with a thrill, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child When foot and hand, and ear and eye, |