THE SEA BUY TO HIS BARQUE. The breeze is fair, the anchor's weighed, And, as recedes the land, Headland and cliff, in distance dim, Like giant shadows stand. His matchless pinions first surpassed When from their chambers in the skies And, borne upon the whirlwind's wrath, With fearless steps I tread thy deck, Thou proudly rear'st thy form. We go, my barque, where incense floats And from the cushioned mosque is heard 'To Allah!' still from turbaned hosts Resounds the solemn cry "To Allah!' wafted on the breeze, The echoing hills reply. Fair Venice too, with mirrored bay, 209 210 THE SEA BOY TO HIS BARQUE. Though fall'n her pride, her glory fled, Their shadows still appear, And fancy wakes them in the song When ample treasure toil repays, While well known voices float along My mother then this form will clasp My aged sire with smiles and tears His roving sea boy bless; The loved one bound with fawn-like tread And blush my gaze to meet, While I into her willing ear The oft pledged vow repeat. And then, my barque, all perils past, Thy faithful bosom bearing still My sylph-like maid and me. THE YOUNG. 211 THE YOUNG. BY W. G. CLARK. WHEN into dust, like dewy flowers departed, We hear the sigh, the song, the fitful laughter While joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung And poured rich numbers for the loved and young! When the clear stars are burning high in heaven,— When the low night-winds kiss the autumnal tree, And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even, How soft those voices on the heart will be! They breathe of raptures which have bloomed and died, Of sorrows, by remembrance sanctified. Yet, when the loved have from our pathway vanished, What potent magic can their smiles restore? 212 TO A LADY FOR A NOSEGAY. Like some gay sun-burst, by the tempest banished, They passed in darkness-they will come no more. Unlike the day-beams, when the storm hath fled, No light renewed breaks on their lowly bed! www. TO A LADY FOR A NOSEGAY. BY J. G. C. BRAINARD. WHO does not love a flower? Its hues are taken from the light A lesson to the giver. Not in the streets to bloom and shine, Not in the rout of noise and wine, Not trampled by the rushing crowd, Not in paved streets and cities proudFrom danger safe from blighting free, Pure, simple, artless, let it be, An emblem of the giver. I SEE THEE STILL. 213 I SEE THEE STILL. BY CHARLES SPRAGUE. I rocked her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest: I see thee still: Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Then thy soft armis my neck enfold, In every scene to memory dear, I see thee still, In every hallowed token round; |