TO A WAVE.

Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?

Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song
Was telling of a floating prison,
Which when tempests swept along,

And the mighty winds were risen,
Foundered in the ocean's grasp,

While the brave and fair were dying. Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,

Where the pride of kings reposes,
Crowned with many a misty lock,
Wreathed with samphire green and roses?

Or with joyous playful leap

Hast thou been a tribute flinging

Up that bold and jutting steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee

Now thy flight and toil are over!

Oh! may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean rover '
When this soul's last joy or mirth
On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,
To be lost away in heaven.

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PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

BY C. SHERRY.

AWAY! away! I will not hear

Of aught but death or vengeance now; By the eternal skies, I swear

My knee shall never learn to bow! Will not hear a word of peace,

Nor grasp in friendly grasp a hand, Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, That work the ruin of our land.

Before their coming, we had ranged
Our forests and our uplands free;
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged,
The heritage of liberty.

As free as roll the chainless streams,
Still let us roam our ancient woods;
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes.

Touch not the hand they stretch to you; The falsely proffered cup, put by; Will you believe a coward true?

Or taste the poison draught to die? Their friendship is a lurking snare, Their honor but an idle breath;

Their smile—the smile that traitors wear; Their love is hate, their life is death.

كله

Lith,of Kelloggs&Comstock.

N. P. Willes рука

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Plains which your infant feet have roved,

Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe,
Green woods and glens your fathers loved-
Whom smile they for, if not for you?
And could your fathers' spirits look

From lands where deathless verdure waves,
Nor curse the craven hearts that brook
To barter for a nation's graves!

Then raise once more the warrior song,
That tells despair and death are nigh;
Let the loud summons peal along,
Rending the arches of the sky.
And till your last white foe shall kneel,
And in his coward pangs expire—
Sleep-but to dream of brand and steel,
Wake-but to deal in blood and fire!

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

THE Roman sentinel stood helmed ́and tall
Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread
Of comers in the city mart was done,
For it was almost noon, and a dead heat
Quivered upon the fine and sleeping dust,
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall

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