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As to catch the star's young travelling ray
Is tremblingly bright,
As if meteors shot on their upward flight.
Ye have heard of spirits that sail away
By a boundless will,
As a sabbath around some echoless hill !
Methought I was borne through the measureless fields, Where the silver moon and the comet wheels.
With a glorious thrilling of joy I went,
And a tide of life through my heart was sent,
With a shadowy sail,
Hurried me on with the singing gale.
It went through my brain, this deep delight,
As a thing to the walls of the universe sent.
When the sun roll'd up from the burning sea,
I felt his beams quiver along my frame,
When first o'er the clouds and stars they came;
And the light-dropping orbs I had slumber'd among, Their dim, dewy eyes o'er creation hung.
As each beautiful ray
Sunk sadly away,
To the inner home of the high blue day!
Then I sailed far off to the thundering clouds,
Seem'd a shadowy bark on a dreamy billow;
'Mid the lightning's glow,
I heard the dull sounds of the tempest go.
Then storm-clouds crossed my glowing track,
In beauty all over the opening skies;
And the spirits that pass'd on the wings of night,
Like the far-off shout
CHARLES J. LOCKE,
Or Boston, formerly editor of the Boston Spectator.
A DREAM OF THE OCEAN.
A MERMAID uprose in a golden dream,
"T was the festal hall of the waves, and there
And glowing shells in the liquid air
Made melody of sound.
I danced with the spirits o'er diamond sands
And wore a robe which their fairy hands
I linger'd in ecstacy 'mid the grove
And heard the pure song of the Mermaid's love
The water-sprites gather'd around to hear
With the harmony soft, of the shell-tones clear,
"Oh! come" sung the mermaid, "thou beauteous star, Come o'er the distant sea;
The bright moon has vanish'd and sail'd afar,
Oh! I have watch'd on the cold, cold rock,
And laugh'd at the lightning and thunder-shock
And have wish'd I could catch on the lightning-lance
For the moon-beam wearies and falls askance
I built me a grotto of tinted shells
All glean'd from ocean's shores, And sat there uttering fondest spells 'Mid howling tempest's roars;
And I hoped thou would'st come-but I hope not now,
And I gather'd some nightshade to bind my brow,
Yet I love, pretty star, on the rock to sing
The moon sank down, the dark spread his wing,
THE HARP OF THE BATTLE.
STRIKE the harp! strike the harp! let the soft-toned lute
Its mellowing cadence shall now be mute;—
For my soul is mad with ambition and care,
Strike the harp! strike the harp! let its swelling tones
Strike the rage of the battle, the dying moans,
I hear it-I see it-the warriors in strife
And he with the white plume is snatching the wreath
See, he flies to the onset; again and again;—
His friends quail around him-"ye dastards fly not,
"Fly not, ye base cowards, come quick to the fight,"
"Now strike home for vengeance-spare not in your might
THE QUEEN OF THE MIST.
BEAUTIFUL Spirit! that glidest away,
Oh! tell, oh! tell,
Murmuring echo, too, bids thee tell.
Why didst thou sail o'er the calm blue lake
Yes, echo calls thee the bride of the Sun.
Flowerets are weeping, because thou art cold,
Echo repeats it, they dry their tears.
Oh! for a bride that would haste to me,
Murmuring echo, now bids farewell.
Or Portland, is a brother of Grenville Mellen, who is noticed in the preceding pages. The following pieces are all which we have at hand from his pen.
LIST! there is music in the air: