For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word, and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven;

For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow,
So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow,
By the promise that God hath given.”

THE MERMAID'S SONG.

COME, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave-

For I have a bed of coral for thee;

And quiet and sound shall thy slumbers be

In a cell in the Mermaid's cave.

On a pillow of pearls thine eye shall sleep,
And nothing disturb thee there;
The fishes their silent vigils shall keep-
There shall be no grass thy grave to sweep

But the silk of the Mermaid's hair.

And she who is waiting with check so pale,

As the tempest and ocean roar;

And weeps when she hears the menacing gale,
Or sighs to behold her mariner's sail

Come whitening up to the shore.

She has not long to linger for thee;—
Her sorrows shall soon be o'er ;

For, the cord shall be broke and the prisoner free,
Her eye shall close; and her dreams will be

So sweet she will wake no more!

JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.

SONG.*

SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light
As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray;
Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright

As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray.

O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast;
In the wild wood Sleep cradles in roses thy head;
But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed,
He forsakes or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father why stays he so long

On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song,

So sad o'er the wave, o'er she hardened to stone.

We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its charac. ter with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.-ED.

He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe,

Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may, descry; The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true,

And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry !

The Power that is round us-whose presence is near,
In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul-
Protect that lone bark in its lonely career,

And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll I

TO PNEUMA.

TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep

Swiftly o'er the troubled deep,

Darkness may lend her gloomy aid,

And wrap the groaning world in shade;
But inan can show a darker hour,
And bend beneath a stronger power;—
There is a tempest of the SOUL,
A gloom where wilder billows roll!

The howling wilderness may spread
Its pathless deserts, parched and dread,
Where not a blade of herbage blooms,
Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes;

Where Silence, Death, and Horror reign,
Unchecked, across the wide domain ;-

There is a desert of the MIND
More hopeless, dreary, undefined!

There Sorrow, moody Discontent,
And gnawing Care, are wildly blent;
There Horror hangs her darkest clouds,
And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds;
A sickly ray is cast around,

Where nought but dreariness is found;
A feeling that may not be told,
Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,

Is peaceful, sweet serenity

To passion's dark and boundless sea.

There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest,

When storms are warring in the breast;
There is no moment of repose

In bosoms lashed by hidden woes;
The scorpion sting the fury rears,
And every trembling fibre tears;
The vulture preys with bloody beak
Upon the heart that can but break!