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When first the queen of night in beauty rides,
That with the glory of Apollo vies,
That when ten thousand thousand robe the skies,
To her the lover's and the poet's eyes
How often have I watch'd the star of even,
When eyes of heaven's own etherial blue,
Where they as on a mirror's face might view
Of their own siarry light and azure hue !
I thought of both—if earth appear so fair,
How glorious the world beyond the skies;
This earthly shrine so fascinate our eyes,
And e’en to gaze on thine is paradise.
OF New York, the editor of the Critic. His volume of poems, under the title of “ Leisure Hours at Sea,” was pub-, lished in 1825. They were written while the author was a midshipman in the navy of the United States.
The tear which thou upbraidest,
Thy falsehood taught to flow;
My cheek hath blighted so:
I never can forget,
I own I love thee yet.
Go, seek the happier maiden
Who lured thy love from me ;
Is no more prized by thee:
Say, swear thy love is true;
But no! may she ne'er languish
Like me in shame and wo;
That I am doom'd to know !
A tale of love for thee,
For thou art false to me.
THE WARRIOR'S RETURN.
STILL, still is that heart, lovely maid ! erst so warm,
There were friends weeping o'er thee, as death dimm'd thine
eye; There was one standing by thee who breathed not a sigh: , By him not a murmur of sorrow was spokenBut he thought of thy fate with a heart that was broken!
His mind as he stood there had travellid far back
Then he left thee to mourn o'er his absence and pass'd
Then a dim dungeon vault next arose on his sight, Where no voice ever entered, no glimmering of light, But in darkness and horror months, years pass'd away, Till he wish'd for that night which endureth for aye !
He died not—but after long time was set free;
He stood by thy couch as life faded away ;
To the battle he hasted, and reckless of life,
A SONG AT SEA.
OUR sails are spread before the wind,
And onward, onward swift we fly;
No prospect now invites the eye,
Oh! when I waved my last good-bye,
To parents, friends, and Mary dear,
This heart ne'er felt a thrill of fear-
And while upon the heaving main
Our vessel dashes proudly on,
To meet those well-loved friends again,
With wealth and honors bravely won,
But should some cannon pointed true,
Destroy these soothing dreams of glory,
And Mary, when she hears my story,
HANNAH F. GOULD,
OF Newburyport. Miss Gould's poems have been written generally for the newspapers of Newburyport and Boston.
THE MERMAID'S SONG.
COME, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave-
In a cell in the Mermaid's cave.
On a pillow of pearls thine eye shall sleep,
And nothing disturb thee there;
But the silk of the Mermaid's hair.
And she who is waiting with cheek so pale,
As the tempest and ocean roar ;
Come whitening up to the shore.
She has not long to linger for thee ;
Her sorrows shall soon be o'er;
For, the cord shall be broke and the prisoner free, Her eye
shall close ; and her dreams will be So sweet she will wake no more!
A FUNERAL PIECE.
Lift not, lift not the shadowy pall
From the beauteous form it veilethNor ask, as the offerings of sorrow fall,
Who 't is that the mourner waileth !
For, we could not look on a face so dear
With the burial gloom surrounding.– A name so cherish'd we must not hear
While her funeral bell is sounding.
But seek 'mid the throng of the youthful fair
Their loveliest still to number
In the mansion of death to slumber.
She's gone from our sight like a gladdening ray
Of light, that awhile was given
All pure to its source in heaven.
Her heart so feeling and finely strung,
It never was form'd for aching-
It finish'd at once by breaking.
And that tender flower to the cold, dark tomb,
From the scenes she adorn'd is banish'd: She hath snapt from the stem in her morning bloom,
Like a vision of beauty vanish'd !
A mournful group at her dying bed,
We watch'd with sorrowing o'er her,
For a glorious world before her,