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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,
Of gladness on the welkin blue.
And when, at noon, the breath of love,
O'er flower and stream is wandering free,
I think of thee- I think of thee.
I think of thee, when soft and wide
The evening spreads her robes of light,
Sits blushing in the arms of Night..
And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
I think of thee- I think of thee.
I think of thee ;—that eye of flame,
Those tresses falling bright and free,
On fancy rush ;-I think of thee.
CHARLES WEST THOMSON, Of Philadelphia. The pieces which follow are from the Atlantic Souvenir.
Ye birds that fly through the fields of air,
Sweet birds that breathe the spirit of song,
THE WILD BOY.*
He sat upon the wave-wash'd shore,
With madness in his eye;
Pass'd unregarded by-
He heeded not their strife,
And stopp'd the streams of life.
They spoke him kindly-but he gazed,
And offer'd no reply-
And threw the morsel by.
Of darkness hath been cast;
With dangers that were past.
The city of his home and heart,
So grand--so gaily bright,
Had vanish'd from his sight.
Had rent it from its hold
Its tale of terror told.
His kindred there, a numerous band,
Had watch'd his youthful bloom--
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-
But mute and blank despair.
He sat alone, of all the crowd
That lately throng'd around-
He did not heed their sound;
But reason's reign was o'er-
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.
THERE is a vale far in the West,
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,