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THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm;
The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear
Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wreck'd thee!-But there is a shore

Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage;
Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.

By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod-
Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.


ALL sights are fair to the recover'd blind-
All sounds are music to the deaf restored-
The lame, made whole, leaps like the sporting hind;
And the sad bow'd down sinner, with his load

Of shame and sorrow, when he cuts the cord,
And drops the pack it bound, is free again

In the light yoke and burden of his Lord.
Thus, with the birthright of his fellow man,
Sees, hears and feels at once the righted African.

"T is somewhat like the burst from death to life;
From the grave's cerements to the robes of Heaven;
From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife,
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven!

When all the bonds of death and hell are riven,
And mortals put on immortality;

When fear, and care, and grief away are driven,

*The loss of Professor Fisher of Yale College, in the Albion.

And Mercy's hand has turn'd the golden key,
And Mercy's voice has said, "Rejoice-thy soul is free!


Solemn he paced upon that schooner's deck,
And mutter'd of his hardships :-"I have been
Where the wild will of Mississippi's tide
Has dash'd me on the sawyer;-I have sail'd
In the thick night, along the wave-wash'd edge
Of ice, in acres, by the pitiless coast

Of Labrador; and I have scraped my keel
O'er coral rocks in Madagascar seas-
And often in my cold and midnight watch,
Have heard the warning voice of the lee shore
Speaking in breakers! Ay, and I have seen
The whale and sword-fish fight beneath my bows;
And when they made the deep boil like a pot,
Have swung into its vortex; and I know
To cord my vessel with a sailor's skill,
And brave such dangers with a sailor's heart;
-But never yet upon the stormy wave,
Or where the river mixes with the main,
Or in the chafing anchorage of the bay,
In all my rough experience of harm,
Met I-a Methodist meeting-house!

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Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
Starboard nor larboard, gunwale, stem nor stern!
It comes in such a questionable shape,"

1 cannot even speak it! Up jib, Josey,

And make for Bridgeport! There, where Stratford Point,
Long Beach, Fairweather Island, and the buoy,
Are safe from such encounters, we 'll protest!
And Yankee legends long shall tell the tale,
That once a Charleston schooner was beset,
Riding at anchor, by a Meeting-House.

*The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said; "Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, during the, rain storm on Thursday evening last, the Fame was run foul of by the wreck of the Methodist Meeting-House from Norwich, which was carried away in the late freshet."

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THERE's beauty in the deep:
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And Sun and Moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.


There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,

And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend,
With sin and sorrow to the end:
Here, far beneath the tainted foam,
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above.
There's quiet in the deep.


WHAT is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy”
That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October's charms-

When the dread fever quits us-when the storms

Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet,
Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colors hung
Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the Hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there saddening in the Autumn leaves?"


THERE once dwelt in Olympus some notable oddities,
For their wild singularities call'd Gods and Goddesses.-
But one in particular beat 'em all hollow,

Whose name, style and title was Phoebus Apollo.
Now Phœb. was a genius-his hand he could turn
To anything, everything genius can learn:
Bright, sensible, graceful, cute, spirited, handy,
Well bred, well behaved-a celestial Dandy!
An eloquent god, though he did n't say much;

But he drew a long bow, spoke Greek, Latin and Dutch;
A doctor, a poet, a soarer, a diver,

And of horses in harness an excellent driver.

He would tackle his steeds to the wheels of the sun,
And he drove up the east every morning, but one;
When young Phæton begg'd of his daddy at five,
To stay with Aurora a day, and he'd drive.

So good natured Phœbus gave Phaey the seat,

With his mittens, change, waybill, and stage horn complete;
To the breeze of the morning he shook his bright locks,
Blew the lamps of the night out, and mounted the box.
The crack of his whip, like the breaking of day,
Warm'd the wax in the ears of the leaders, and they
With a snort, like the fog of the morning, clear'd out
For the west, as young Phaey meant to get there about
Two hours before sunset.

He look'd at his "turnip,"
And to make the delay of the old line concern up,
He gave 'em the reins; and from Aries to Cancer,
The style of his drive on the road seem'd to answer;

But at Leo, the ears of the near wheel-horse prick'd,
And at Virgo the heels of the off leader kick'd;
Over Libra the whiffle-tree broke in the middle,

And the traces snapp'd short, like the strings of a fiddle.
One wheel struck near Scorpio, who gave it a roll,
And sent it to buzz, like a top, round the pole ;
While the other whizz'd back with its linchpin and hub,
Or, more learnedly speaking, its nucleus or nub;
And, whether in earnest, or whether in fun,
He carried away a few locks of the sun.

The state of poor Phaeton's coach was a blue one,
And Jupiter order'd Apollo a new one;

But our driver felt rather too proud to say "Whoa,"
Letting horses, and harness, and everything go
At their terrified pleasure abroad; and the muse
Says, they cut to this day just what capers they choose;
That the eyes of the chargers as meteors shine forth;
That their manes stream along in the lights of the north;
That the wheels which are missing are comets, that run
As fast as they did when they carried the sun;
And still pushing forward, though never arriving,
Think the west is before them, and Phaeton driving.


FROM that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and welling by the tree,
Rushing to meet and dare and breast the sea,
Fair, noble, glorious, river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave,
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore;—
The promontories love thee-and for this

Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss.
Stern, at thy source, thy northern Guardians stand,
Rude rulers of the solitary land,

Wild dwellers by thy cold sequester'd springs,
Of earth the feathers and of air the wings;
Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm
Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form-
Yet, bless'd by all the elements that sweep
The clouds above, or the unfathom'd deep,
The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills,

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