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In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who've felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find short solace there, as I have found.
SOUTH SEA MISSIONARIES.
With pleasure not unmix'd with pain,
They find their passage o'er,
That islet's rocky shore.
The torrid land before.
No sound was in the silence heard
To break the air of balm,
Wheel'd seaward in the calm:
The streamers of the palm.
The shipman in the distance sees
Across the glowing bay,
Like sunburnt ricks of hay,
Bask in the morning ray.
Of christian hearts drew near,
The lifeless atmosphere;-
So desolate and drear?
In faith, those far-off shores they trod,
This humble six or seven,
Shall spread the gospel leaven,
A mercy gate of Heaven.
THE thickly woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallow'd fane,
Of Summer's gentle reign;
Which like an emerald's glow,
Upon the crowds below.
O let the streams of solemn thought
Which in those temples rise
Dependant on the skies.
And winter's withering chill
Shall be unchanging still.
Editor of the Western Souvenir.
WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.
'T was far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted vows of
love, The ocean wave was at our feet, the autumn sky above, The pebbly shore was covered o'er with many a varied shell, And on the billows' curling spray, the sunbeams glittering fell. The storm has vexed that billow oft, and oft that sun hath set, But plighted love remains with us, in peace and lustre yet. I wiled
thee to a lonely haunt, that bashful love might speak, Where none could hear what love revealed, or see the crimson
cheek; The shore was all deserted, and we wandered there alone,
And not a human step impress'd the sand beach but our own; The footsteps all have vanish'd from the billow beaten strandThe vows we breathed remain with us—they were not traced
in sand. Far, far, we left the sea-girt shore, endear'd by childhood's
dream, To seek the humble cot, that smiled by fair Ohio's stream. In vain the mountain cliff opposed, the mountain torrent roard, For love unfurl'd her silken wing, and o'er each barrier soar'd; And many a wide domain we passed, and many an ample dome, But none so bless'd, so dear to us, as wedded love's first home. Beyond these mountains, now are all, that e'er we loved or knew, The long remembered many, and the dearly cherished few; The home of her we value, and the grave of him we mourn, Are there; and there is all the part to which the heart can turn; But dearer scenes surround us here, and lovelier joys we trace, For here is wedded love's first home—its hallowed resting place.
A. M. WELLS.
MRS WELLS is the wife of Thomas Wells, of Boston, noticed in the second volume. She writes with sweetness and simplicity.
THERE sits a woman on the brow
Of yonder rocky height;
She sits from morn till night.
She heeds not how the mad waves leap
Along the rugged shore;
She never may see more.
As morning twilight faintly gleams,
Her shadowy form I trace;
The Genius of the place!
Far other once was Rosalie;
Her smile was glad; her voice,
Said to the heart-rejoice.
O'er her pure thoughts did sorrow fling
Perchance a shade, 't would pass,
Along the bending grass.
A sailor's bride 't was hers to be :
Wo to the faithless main!
And ne'er returned again.
But long, where all is wrecked beside,
And every joy is chased,
Amid the dreary waste!
Nine years—though all have given him o'er,
Her spirit doth not fail ;
The never coming sail.
On that high rock, abrupt and bare,
Ever she sits, as now;
The sun has scorched her brow.
far-off sail she sees,
She calls to it aloud.
The sea-bird answers to her cry;
The cloud, the sail float on.-
Yet is her hope not gone :
It cannot go :-with that to part,
So long, so fondly nursed,
When falling dews the clover steep,
are in their nest,
And ploughmen gone to rest,
Down the rude track her feet have worn,
-There scarce the goat may go ;Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,
Is seen descending slow.
But when the gray morn tints the sky,
And lights that lofty peakWith a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,
Again she goes, unţired, to sit
And watch, the live-long day;
E'er turns her steps away.
Hidden, and deep, and never dry,
Or flowing, or at rest,
In every human breast.
All else may fail, that soothes the heart,
All, save that fount alone;
For life and hope are one.
THE TAMED EAGLE.
He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew
At my approach ;
But as I nearer drew,
And sadness too:
And something still his native pride proclaim'd,
Despite his wo;
Which, when I marked,-ashamed To see a noble creature brought so low,
My heart exclaim'd,