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Midnight-and still the storm raged wrathfully and loud,
proud; There was darkness all around, save where lightning flashes keen Play'd on the crests of the broken waves, and lit the depths
Around her and below, the waste of waters roar'd,
overboard, At every billow's shock, her quivering timbers strain; And as she rose on a crested wave, that strange ship passid
And o'er that stormy sea she flew before the gale,
sail. Another blinding flash, and nearer yet she seem'a, And a pale blue light along her sails and o'er her rigging
But it show'd no seaman's form, no hand her course to guide ;
The angry tempest ceased, the winds were hush'd to sleep,
And many a hardy seaman, who fears nor storm nor fight,
night; For it augurs death and danger: it bodes a watery grave, With sea-weeds for his pillow--for his shroud, the wandering wave.
A. G. GREENE.
Song of a Persian Maid.
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long,
To sit in the roses and bear the bird's song.
That bower and its music, I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer. No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they
shone, And a dew was distillid from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus Memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!
The Cottage.-An Admonition. YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! -The lovely cottage in the guardian nouk Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the abodemo do not sigh As many do, repining while they look ; Intruders who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety: -Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants —Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine : Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch'd would melt away!
Ariel's Song.- Sea Dirge.
Of his bones are coral made;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
• Thought. THOUGHT shines from God as shines the morn; Language from kindling thought is born ; The radiant zones of space and time Unroll from out that speech sublime ; Creation is the picture word, The hieroglyph of Wisdom's Lord ; Edens ou blissful Edens rise To shape the Epic of the skies; Heaven is the grand full-spoken thought Of Him by whom the worlds were wrought; He, throned within the world above, Inspires that heaven, that thought, with love.
And closed like the day;
Lays it away.
Forgotten they lie;
They darken and dié.
The story is told;
The hearthstone is cold.
The black shadows fall;
'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON-WORKS, NEWTON.
INDEX OF WRITERS.
The Pleasures of the Imagination
Song on Spring Morn ...
How they brought the Good News from
To the Fringed Gentian
The Future Life ...
On hearing a Thrush sing in a Winter Morning Walk on his Birthday
CAMPBELL- The Last Man ...
Eternal Hope ...
What can alone ennoble Fight?
An April Day
Hymu-Before Sunrise in the
On the Loss of the Royal George ...