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THE DEAD MARINER.

Go there with all the birds, and seek

A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,

And mark where all its glories shone-
See-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel-that it all is cold and gone.

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THE DEAD MARINER.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

SLEEP on-sleep on-above thy corse
The winds their sabbath keep,—
The wave is round thee-and thy breast
Heaves with the heaving deep;
O'er thee, mild eve her beauty flings,
And there the white gull lifts her wings;

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And the blue halcyon loves to lave

Her plumage in the holy wave.

Sleep on-no willow o'er thee bends

With melancholy air,

No violet springs, nor dewy rose

Its soul of love lays bare

But there the sea-flower bright and young
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung;

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THE DEAD MARINER

And, like a weeping mourner fair,

The pale flag hangs its tresses there.

Sleep on-sleep on-the glittering depths
Of ocean's coral waves
Are thy bright urn-thy requiem
The music of its waves;-
The purple gems forever burn -
In fadeless beauty round thy urn;
And, pure and deep as infant love,
The blue sea rolls its waves above.

Sleep on-sleep on-the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep,
May leave its wild and stormy track
Above thy place of sleep.

But when the wave has sunk to rest,

As now 't will murmur o'er thy breast;

And the bright victims of the sea

Perchance will make their home with thee.

Sleep on-thy corse is, far away,

But love bewails thee yet,

For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed, And lovely eyes are wet:

And she, the young and beauteous bride,
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side;

As oft she turns to view with tears
The Eden of departed years.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND.

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TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

I PRAY thee by thy mother's face
And by her look and by her eye,

By every decent matron grace

That hovered round the resting place
Where thy young head did lie;

And by the voice that soothed thine ear,
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear,
That matched thy changeful mood;
By every prayer thy mother taught-
By every blessing that she sought,
I pray thee to be good.

Is not the nestling, when it wakes Its eye upon the wood around,

And on its new fledged, pinions takes Its taste of leaves and boughs and brakesOf motion slight and sound,

Is it not like the parent? Then

Be like thy mother, child, and when

Thy wing is bold and strong;

As pure and steady be thy lightAs high and heavenly be thy flightAs holy be thy song.

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THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE

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BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

GLIDE gaily forth, my gallant barque
Thy canvass proudly swell;
Above thee is the glorious sky,
Beneath, the mermaid's cell.
The gems of ocean court thy smile,
Then speed thee o'er the main,
Free as the Arab courser's tread
Upon his native plain.

The dolphin sports along thy track
In many a graceful bound,
And from yon beetling cliff is heard
The sea-gull's mournful sound:
Thy pennon from its airy couch

Unfolds its crimson dress,
Then launch upon thy watery way,
The amorous waves to press.

How beauteous floats thy swan like form

Along the mighty deep,

While the moon's rays in silent pomp

Upon the billows sleep!

To rival thee, earth's loveliest charms

In vain display their store,

As from thy prow in sparkling gems

The liquid treasures pour.

THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE.

The breeze is fair, the anchor's weighed,

And, as recedes the land,

Headland and cliff, in distance dim,

Like giant shadows stand.
The eagle from his eyry springs
Amazed, in doubt, to see

His matchless pinions first surpassed
In strength and speed by thee.

When from their chambers in the skies
The vivid lightnings flash,

And, borne upon the whirlwind's wrath,
The waves in fury dash;

With fearless steps I tread thy deck,
Nor heed the angry storm,
As o'er the booming surges still

Thou proudly rear'st thy form.

We go, my barque, where incense floats
Upon the perfumed air,

And from the cushioned mosque is heard
The moslem voice of prayer:
"To Allah!' still from turbaned hosts

Resounds the solemn cry

"To Allah!' wafted on the breeze,
The echoing hills reply.

Fair Venice too, with mirrored bay,
Will meet my anxious gaze—
Her domes and temples glittering yet
Beneath the noontide blaze:

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