But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck; Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave! O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again. Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,— Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, WILLIAM DIMOND. Old Grimes. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man We never shall see more; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, Kind words he ever had for all, His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, But good old Grimes is now at rest, He wore a double-breasted vest- He modest merit sought to find, His neighbors he did not abuse, He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, Thus undisturbed by anxious cares And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. ALBERT GORTON GREENE. The Closing Year. 'T Is midnight's holy hour,-and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, Gone from the Earth forever. 'T is a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, And holy visions that have passed away, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power |