Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent?

Or art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy!
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye!
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy or error dim
The glory of the seraphim?

Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave the storm:
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of Paradise,
And years, so fate hath ordered, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn
Like a thin veil that half-concealed
The light of soul, and half-revealed.
While thy hushed heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eyelash moved with thonght,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek-
Such summer-clouds as travel light,

When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awok'st-then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy!
And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!

THE SHIPWRECK.

But list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song;

And now it reigns above, around,

As if it called the ship along.

The moon is sunk; and a clouded gray

Declares that her course is run, And like a god who brings the day,

Up mounts the glorious sun.

Soon as his light has warmed the seas,

From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze;
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.

No fears hath she; her giant form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm would go

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,

The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast;Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this bour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship
Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine,
Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,

To the coral-rocks are hurrying down,

To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed

The sleeper's long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,

The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage door,

And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;
The whole ship's crew are there!
Wailings around and overhead,
Brave spirits stupefied or dead,
And madness and despair.

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;

The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.

No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.

Though the night shades are gone, yet a vapor dull

Bedims the waves so beautiful:

While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

From the "Isle of Palms.""

THE EVENING CLOUD-A SONNET.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest;

While ev'ry breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the trav'ller to the beauteous west.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is giv'n,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heav'n,
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

AMELIA OPIE, 1771

MRS. AMELIA OPIE was a daughter of Dr. Alderson, an eminent physician of Norwich, and was born in that city in 1771. At a very early period of her life, she evinced talents of a superior order, composing, while still a child, poems, descriptive pieces, and novels, though, with the exception of

some poetical pieces in the Monthly Magazine," none of them were pub lished before her marriage, which took place in May, 1798, with Mr. John Opie, the celebrated painter. One of her first publications, "The Father and Daughter," a tale, appeared in 1801, which at once drew upon her the public attention. This was succeeded, in 1802, by an "Elegy to the Memory of the late Duke of Bedford," and a volume of other poems; and in 1804 she gave to the world her tale of "Adeline Mowbry, or the Mother and Daughter." This was followed by "Simple Tales," in four volumes; Dangers of Coquetry," and the "Warrior's Return, and other Poems." In 1807, she lost her husband, and wrote, soon after, that beautiful piece entitled The Lament."

Mrs. Opie's subsequent publications are, a novel entitled "Temper, or Domestic Scenes;" "Tales of Real Life;" "Valentine Eve;" "New Fables," in four volumes; and The Black Man's Lament," in praise of the abolition of slavery, which appeared in 1826. But that which has made her name most known is her "Illustrations of Lying in all its Branches." It exposes to view much of the hypocrisy and heartlessness of what is called the "fashionable world," and of the various tricks and deceptions resorted to by men in business to "succeed," as they call it, in making money; and by numerous interesting and illustrative stories, she sets forth, in their true light, the various lies of "Flattery," of "Fear," of "Convenience," of "Interest," of "Benevolence," &c. It is a book which every one, but especially the young, might read with much profit. A short time before the publication of this work, Mrs. Opie joined the "Society of Friends," from a conviction that their doctrines, as illustrated in their practice, came nearer the pure standard of primitive Christianity than any other sect.

Of Mrs. Opie's poetry, which exhibits pure taste and great depth of feeling, it has been well remarked that it "bears fresh evidence to the truth that woman's moral sentiments are generally in advance of man's. Those who doubt the fact will do well to remember how continually man's verse celebrates the infernal glories of war, the cruel excitements of the chase, or the selfish pleasures of bacchanalian enjoyment; and, on the other hand, how unceasingly woman's verse exposes the wickedness and folly of such pursuits."

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale!

Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.

"An appalling piece of domestic tragedy, and perhaps the most deeply

affecting of her writings."

Edinburgh Review, vol. li. p. 540.

Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,

And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud,
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;

My mother answered with her tears.
"Why are you crying thus," said I,

"While others laugh and shout with joy?"
She kissed me-and with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.

"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,

As in her face I looked, and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,
"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!"
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;

O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide-
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep! ha! this to me?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

SONG.1

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;

A writer in the "Edinburgh Review" styles this production of Mrs. Opie's one of the finest songs in our language.