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And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And bright reflects the polar star.
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
0! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.
Mount Washington; the loftiest Peak of the White
Mountains, N. H.-G. MELLEN.
Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian height
Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.
Thine is the summit where the clouds repose,
When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws
The storms come forth—and, hurrying darkly on
And, when the tumult of the air is fled,
memory ever gave! Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year, Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows, Thy towers in bright magnificence appear! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; When, lo! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear,
Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!
To the dying Year.-J. G. WHITTIER. And thou, gray voyager to the breezeless sea
Of infinite Oblivion, speed thou on! Another gift of Time succeedeth thee,
Fresh from the hand of God! for thou hast done
The errand of thy destiny, and none
Mortality's frail records to thy cold,
Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold; Ambition's grasp at greatness; the quenched light
Of broken spirits; the forgiven wrong,
These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell
The Captain. A Fragment.*—BRAINARD.
Cat-head, or beam, or davit has it none,
# The Bridgeport paper of March, 1823, said: “ Arrived, schooner Fame, from Charleston, via New London. While at anchor in that harbor, dura ing 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."
They that seek me early shall find me."--COLUMBIAN
COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest,
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze; Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways;
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast-
Come, and secure interminable rest.
Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now bless thee will have passed for ever;
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be!
Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die-
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Which lights up sorrow with a fadeless ray: O, touch the sceptre !—with a hope in heaven
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away.
Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul, And, shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal;
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss :
The pathway to the grave may be the same,
What is its earthly victory? Press on ! For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on! For it shall make you mighty among men; And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, press on! For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence; and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your brow, And read it like a talisman of love! Press on! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought; Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, And, in the very fetters of your flesh, Mating with the pure essences of heaven! Press on !—for in the grave there is no work, And no device.'-Press on! while yet ye may!
So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst