But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ;'
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye ;-

O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

DIMOND.

BRUCE AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,

Of Egypt's awful flood;

The cradle of that mighty birth,

So long a hidden thing to earth.

He heard its life's first murmuring sound,

A low, mysterious tone;

A music sought, but never found

By kings and warriors gone;

He listened, and his heart beat high ;-
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror's mood
Rushed burning through his frame,
The depths of that green solitude
Its torrents could not tame,

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile,
Round those calm fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars ;

-across his soul

There swept a sudden change, Even at the pilgrim's glorious goal,

A shadow dark and strange,

Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour;-And is this all?

No more than this! what seemed it now
First by that spring to stand?

A thousand streams of lovelier flow
Bathed his own mountain land;
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices called him back.

They called him back to many a glade,
His childhood's haunt of play,

Where brightly, through the beechen shade,
Their waters glanced away;

They called him with their sounding waves Back to his father's hills and graves.

But, darkly mingling with the thought

Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught

With all that lay between ;

The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom.

Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?
His weary heart within him died,

With yearnings for his home;
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness,

He wept; the stars of Afric's heaven
Beheld his bursting tears,

Even on that spot, where fate had given

The meed of toiling years.

-O Happiness! how far we flee

Thine own sweet paths, in search of thee!

MRS. HEMANS.

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity hath brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-rope's flapping lone I hear,

For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackall's shrieks burst on my ear, Where mirth and music wont to charm.

By Cherical's dark, wandering stream,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dream
Of Teviot, loved while still a child;
Of castled rocks, stupendous piled
By Eske or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendship smiled
Unchecked by thee, vile yellow slave!

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fires drear. A gentle vision comes by night,

My lonely, widowed heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear;I cannot bear to see thee shine!

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave!
I left a heart that loved me true;

I crossed the tedious ocean wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new; The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart; the grave, Dark and untimely, met my view,And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! com'st thou now, so late, to mock
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock

Of sun-rays, tipt with death, has borne, From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey? Vile slave thy yellow dross I scorn ;Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay!

LEYDEN.

HOME.

WHERE burns the loved hearth brightest,

Cheering the social breast?
Where beats the fond heart lightest,
Its humble hopes possessed?
Where is the smile of sadness,

Of meek-eyed patience born,
Worth more than those of gladness,
Which mirth's bright cheek adorn?
Pleasure is marked by fleetness

To those who ever roam;
While even grief has sweetness
At Home! dear Home!

There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief;
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visit, when most brief;