And its keen hunger is the same
In winter's frost or summer's flame!
When life was young, adventure sweet,
I came with Walter Raleigh's fleet,
But here my scattered bones have lain
And bleached for ages by the main !
Though lonely once, strange folk have come,
Till peopled is my barren home.
Enough are here. Oh, heed the cry,
Ye white-winged strangers sailing by!
The bark that lingers on this wave
Will find its smiling but a grave!
Then, tardy mariner, turn and flee,
A myriad wrecks are on thy lea!
With swelling sail and sloping mast,
Accept kind Heaven's propitious blast!
O ship, sail on! O ship, sail fast,
Till, Golgotha's quicksands being past,
Thou gain'st the open sea at last!"

Josiah W. Holden.

THE WRECK.

THEY
HEY were off Cape Hatteras
a
On a dark night of September,
Long, ah! long shall we remember!
On the ship were souls six hundred
Ere the God of Tempests thundered.
Long we'll mourn the night-alas ! –
They were off Cape Hatteras.

O'er the billows came the storm;
On the sea were demons prowling ;
O'er the wave came Horror howling;
Looking on the dread commotion
Lay dark spirits of the ocean;

In its terrors multiform

O'er the billows came the storm.

Comes the sound of boding doom. —
Hark! the spars and boom a-creaking!
Hark! the dole of victims shrieking!
Louder comes the tempest's thunder,
Bursting rope and bar asunder!

From the bellow and the gloom
Comes the sound of boding doom.

With the blare of bellowing storm
Comes the shout of seamen daring :
"Courage, brothers! God us sparing,
We shall conquer, though the thunder
Crushes our good ship asunder!'
Lightning showed each sailor form
Battling with the bellowing storm.

Hark, on high! 't is God who speaks!
Thunders ruinous are booming;
Storm-cloud in the lightning looming;
Fiercer, louder, wilder, higher,

Howls the darkling blast and nigher. . . .
From the heaven the thunder breaks
Hark, on high! 'tis God who speaks!

Now there comes a spirit prone
O'er the deck from prow to rudder,
Making e'en the seamen shudder! ...
Now the gallant Herndon's speaking
With his trumpet o'er the shrieking:
"Now to God and Him alone!"
Then there came that spirit prone.

Wild the answer: groan and prayer!
Wild the answer: tempest thundered!
Wild the answer of six hundred!
O'er the deck came billows breaking
Vessel sinking-- hope forsaking!

“Look to God—for death prepare!"
Wild the answer: groan and prayer!

Down in caverns wild and dark
Are the daring victims lying-
Loud the land with wail and sighing.
With the God of Tempests leave them
Jesus, Saviour, now receive them.
The good ship lies grim and stark
Down in caverns wild and dark;

It is off Cape Hatteras

Sunk that dark night of September-
Long, ah! long shall we remember.
There were on the ship six hundred
Ere the God of Tempests thundered!
Long we'll mourn the night-alas !
They were off Cape Hatteras!

T. H. M Naughton.

Isle of Founts, Ga.

ISLE OF FOUNTS: AN INDIAN TRADITION.

"THE river St. Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which lies between Flint and Ockmulgee rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game; but that in their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing." BERTRAM'S Travels through North and South Carolina, etc.

ON of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er you blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west-winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh, seek thou not the Fountain Isle !

Lull but the mighty serpent king

Midst the gray rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,

Thy step that lake's green shore may gain;
And the bright Isle, when all is passed,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;

And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies

To which the ancient rocks gave birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood notes o'er the waves.

The emerald waves! they take their hue
And image from that sunbright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The dreamy land should still recede !

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near

Of founts that ripple through its glades
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!

But woe for him who sees them burst

With their bright spray showers to the lake!