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That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern.
The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched,
Till the yards cracked. She bent before its force,
And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves.
Straight out she went to sea, as when a hawk
Darts on a dove, and, with a motionless wing,
Cuts the light, yielding air. The mountains dipped
Their dark walls to the waters, and the hills

Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white point, On which a light-house blazed, alone stood out

In the broad sea; and there he fixed his eye,

Taking his last look of his native shore.

Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong,

And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were heaved
In high and rolling billows. All were glad,
And laughed, and shouted, as she darted on,
And plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high
Over the deck, as when a strong, curbed steed
Flings the froth from him in his eager race.
All had been dimly star-lit; but the moon,
Late rising, silvered o'er the tossing sea,
And lighted up its foam-wreaths, and just threw
One parting glance upon the distant shores.

They meet his eye; the sinking rocks were bright,
And a clear line of silver marked the hills,
Where he had said farewell. A sudden tear
Gushed, and his heart was melted; but he soon
Repressed the weakness, and he calmly watched
The fading vision. Just as it retired

Into the common darkness, on his eyes

Sleep fell, and, with his looks turned to his home,
And dearer than his home-to her he loved,

He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams
Bright, and too glad to be realities.

Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams,
Till, from the bosom of the boundless sea,

Now spreading far and wide without a shore,

The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke.

A Thanksgiving Hymn.-HENRY WARE, JR.

FATHER of earth and heaven,
Whose arm upholds creation,

To thee we raise the voice of praise,
And bend in adoration.
We praise the Power that made us;
We praise the love that blesses;
While every day that rolls away
Thy gracious care confesses.

Life is from thee, blessed Father;
From thee our breathing spirits;
And thou dost give to all that live
The bliss that each inherits.
Day, night, and rolling seasons,
And all that life embraces,

With bliss are crowned, with joy abound,
And claim our thankful praises.

Though trial and affliction

May cast their dark shade o'er us, Thy love doth throw a heavenly glow

Öf light on all before us.

That love has smiled from heaven

To cheer our path of sadness,

And lead the way, through earth's dull day,

To realms of endless gladness.

That light of love and glory

Has shone through Christ, the Savior,

The holy Guide, who lived and died

That we might live forever:

And since thy great compassion

Thus brings thy children near thee,

May we to praise devote our days,
And love as well as fear thee.

And when Death's final summons

From earth's dear scenes shall move us,From friends, from foes, from joys, from woes, From all that know and love us,

O, then, let hope attend us!

Thy peace to us be given!

That we may rise above the skies,

And sing thy praise in heaven!

The Temple of Theseus.*-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN

UNCRUMBLED yet, the sacred fane uprears
Its brow, majestic in the storm of years:
Time has but slightly dared to steal away
The marks of beauty from its columns gray;
Each sculptured capital in glory stands,

As once the boast of those delightful lands,

Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down,
Some baser monument of art to crown.

Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore,
That once the crowd beheld but to adore,
Rich with the proud exploits of Æthra's son,
And lofty conquests by Alcides won ;-

The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear;
The passing pilgrim pauses to revere;

The pensive poet views its columns proud,
And Fancy hears again the anthem loud,
From kindling bards, that once arose on high,—
A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky.

The inner shrine no more protects the slave,
The holy walls no more the oppressed can save,
The wretch no longer safety there can claim,
And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name;
Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb,
His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.

To holier uses rise those walls on high,
And holier anthems murmur on the sky;
The shrine is crumbled to its native soil,
And pagan grandeur given as a spoil;

No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane,
And none to him prolong the adoring strain;
Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven,

To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given.

*The temple of Theseus at Athens-one of the most beautiful and entire remains of ancient art-was once a sanctuary for slaves, and men who needed protection. It is now dedicated to St. George, and is revered by the Athenians as much, perhaps, as it ever was.

On the Death of a beautiful young Girl.-
CONNECTICUT MIRROR.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus; when Hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,

A whirlwind from the desert comes, and "all is in the dust."

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, that, when the poor heart clings,
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast,
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this: One moment round about us their angel lightnings play; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their

birth:

The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute,
The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with all that's best below:
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go;-
The bird that sings the sweetest; the vine that crowns the rock;
The glory of the garden; "the flower of the flock."

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear: A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love; Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home

above.

Lines to a Lady of great musica. Talent.-MRS CHILD.

THANKS, Orphea, thanks: thy magic spell

Has waked my soul to sound,

And, deep within a sealed well,
A spring of joy is found.

My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings

Has my spirit been before.

But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,
And bids me own thy wondrous art
The soul of the "tuneful Nine."

Yes, all I've dreamed of bright or fair,
Is but imbodied sound:

Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!

All Nature hath of breezy grace,
In motion swift and free,-
Each lovely hue upon her face,-
Is living melody.

Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play ;-

But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee;

For chained had been each demon's wing,

By thy rich minstrelsy.

Priestess of a mighty power,

My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower-
Thy voice is poetry.

Hymn for the two hundredth Anniversary of the Settlemen of Charlestown.-PIERPONT.*

Two hundred years!-two hundred years!-
How much of human power and pride,

There is uncommon grandeur, both of thought and expression, in several of Mr. Pierpont's occasional odes. This piece, Napoleon at Rest, and the Hymn at Bunker Hill, are similar in their general character, and all truly sublime.-ED.

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