O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?

The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were

now

To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the

whales,

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their

scourging tails!

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory

horn;

To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to

scorn;

To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian

isles

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles,
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his black-browsing ocean-calves, or haply in a cove
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable

line;

And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave!
A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip

ping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee

bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou 'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard

grave,

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave.

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among! SAMUEL FERGUSON.

The Bells of Shandon.

WITH deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee,-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on

The plesant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,—
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter

Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow;
While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there 's an anthem
More dear to me,—
"T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

FRANCIS MAHONY.

The Death of Napoleon.

WILD was the night, yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherished;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken,

That he dreamed of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle,
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again on the hills of haughty Spain
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story;

In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

ISAAC MOLELLAN.

The Grave of Bonaparte.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,
Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.