Ocean farewell !--Upon thy mighty shore,

I loved in childhood's fairy hours to dwell !But I am wasting—life will soon be o'er,

And I shall cease to gaze on thee-farewell !~ Thou still wilt glow as fair as now—the sky

Still arch as proudly o'er thee-Evening steal Along thy bosom with as soft a dye

All be as now but I shall cease to feel.

The evening mists are on their silent way,

And thou art fading ;-faint thy colors blend With the last tinges of the dying day,

And deeper shadows up the skies ascend ;Farewell :—farewell the night is coming fast

In deeper tones thy wild notes seem to swell Upon the cold wings of the sing blast

I go-I go-dear Ocean, fare thee well!

TO A LADY.

I THINK of thee, when morning springs

From sleep with plumage bathed in dew,
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings

Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love,

O'er flower and stream is wandering free,
And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee- I think of thee.

I think of thee, when soft and wide

The evening spreads her robes of light,
And, like a young and timid bride,

Sits blushing in the arms of Night..

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs

In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth, like blessed things,

I think of thee- I think of thee.

I think of thee ;—that eye of flame,

Those tresses falling bright and free,
That brow where “ Beauty writes her name,”

On fancy rush ;-I think of thee.

CHARLES WEST THOMSON, Of Philadelphia. The pieces which follow are from the Atlantic Souvenir.

BIRDS.

Ye birds that fly through the fields of air,
What lessons of wisdom and truth ye bear!
Ye would teach our souls from earth to rise,
Ye would bid us its grovelling scenes despise-
Ye would tell us that all its pursuits are vain,
That pleasure is toil—ambition is pain
That its bliss is touch'd with a poisoning leaven
Ye would teach us to fix our aim on heaven.
Beautiful birds of the azure wing,
Bright creatures that come with the “voice of Spring,”
We see you array'd in the hues of the morn,
Yet ye dream not of pride, and ye wist not of scorn.
Though rainbow splendor around you glows,
Ye vaunt not the beauty which nature bestows
Oh! what a lesson for glory are ye
How ye preach of the grace of humility!
Swift birds that skim o'er the stormy deep,
Who steadily onward your journey keep,
Who neither for rest nor, slumber stay,
But press still forward by night and day-
And in your unwearying course yet fly
Beneath the clear and the clouded sky,
O! may we, without delay, like you,
The path of duty and right pursue.

Sweet birds that breathe the spirit of song,
And surround heaven's gate in melodious throng,
Who rise with the earliest beams of day,
Your morning tribute of thanks to pay-
You remind us that we alike should raise
The voice of devotion aod song of praise.
There's something about you that points on high,
Ye beautiful tenants of earth and sky!

THE WILD BOY.*

He sat upon the wave-wash'd shore,

With madness in his eye;
The surge's dash-the breaker's roar,

Pass'd unregarded by-
*He noted not the billows' roll,

He heeded not their strife,
For terror had usurp'd his soul,

And stopp'd the streams of life.

They spoke him kindly-but he gazed,

And offer'd no reply-
They gave him food-he look'd amazed,

And threw the morsel by.
He was as one o'er whom a spell

Of darkness hath been cast;
His spirit seem'd alone to dwell

With dangers that were past.

The city of his home and heart,

So grand--so gaily bright,
Now, touch'd by Fate's unerring dart,

Had vanish'd from his sight.
The earthquake's paralyzing shake

Had rent it from its hold
And nothing but a putrid lake

Its tale of terror told.

His kindred there, a numerous band,

Had watch'd his youthful bloom--
In the broad ruin of the land,

All-all had met their doom ! *Sve Kircher's description of the earthquake in Calabria in 1638

But the last night, a mother's voice

Breathed over him in prayer-
She perish'd--he was left no choice

But mute and blank despair.

He sat alone, of all the crowd

That lately throng'd around-
The ocean winds were piping loud,

He did not heed their sound;
They ask'd him of that city's fate,

But reason's reign was o'er-
He pointed to her ruin'd state,

Then filed_and spoke no more.

MICAH P. FLINT,

OF Alexandria, in Louisiana, a native we believe of Salem, Massachusetts, wrote “ The Hunter, and other Poems," published in 1826.

THE HUNTER.

a

THERE is a vale far in the West,
And silence hovers o'er its breast;
The track of man is seldom seen
Upon its yet unsullied green.
The wild deer fearless roves along;
The red bird pours his mellow song;
And the gay mock bird from on high
Repeats, in playful mimicry,
The varied notes, which all around,
From twice ten thousand songsters rise :
When, waked at morn, its groves résound
Their matin chorus to the skies,
Its echoes never learn'd to know
The cheering voice of chanticleer,
Or sturdy axeman's measured blow,

Along the wild wood ringing clear. But still they mock the solemn owl, And cheat the wolf with mimic howl. The cloud-capt ridge, that bounds the west, Behind it rears a snowy crest, Whose evening shadows o'er it rest; And often when the morning cloud Has wrapt its mantle, like a shroud, Around the frowning giant's form, The radiant sun is glancing warm; And every songster, warbling sweet, In that lone valley at his feet. A winding stream the tribute brings Of melting snows and crystal springs, That gush along the mountain's side, And mingling there in silence glide Beneath green arbors, where the vine, The jessamine, and eglantine Their varying hues of beauty twine, With many a virgin floweret’s bloom, And fill the air with sweet perfume. Hard by that stream there whilom stood A lonely hut, o'er which the wood Spread with its hundred arms on high A wild luxuriant canopy. And who was he, that hermit gray, That thus in loneliness would dwell ? Why did he stray thus far away, To die in that sequester'd dell? His look-his form-his speech-his mien Were not of savage mould, I ween; Nor yet of that dull heavy kind, That mark so well the common mind. But such, as chain the wondering eye, Though none can tell the reason why. Oft would his broken accents tell, As half unconsciously they fell, Of joys and griefs, of hopes and fears, Now lost amid the wreck of years ; Of love by blood and murder crost; Of home and friends for ever lost; And then, as though his very grief Were link'd with something like relief, A bitter smile was seen to play Across his deeply-furrow'd cheek, And, ere the eye its cause might seek,