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THE SHIP IS READY

THE SHIP IS READY.

BY HANNAH F. GOULD.

FARE thee well! the ship is ready,
And the breeze is fresh and steady.
Hands are fast the anchor weighing;
High in air the streamer's playing.
Spread the sails-the waves are swelling
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling.
Fare thee well! and when at sea,
Think of those, who sigh for thee.

When from land and home receding,
And from hearts, that ache to bleeding,
Think of those behind, who love thee,
While the sun is bright above thee!
Then, as down to ocean glancing,
With the waves his rays are dancing,
Think how long the night will be
To the eyes, that weep for thee.

When the lonely night-watch keeping
All below thee still and sleeping-
As the needle points the quarter
O'er the wide and trackless water,
Let thy vigils ever find thee
Mindful of the friends behind thee!
Let thy bosom's magnet be

Turned to those, who wake for thee!

LINES.

When, with slow and gentle motion,
Heaves the bosom of the ocean-
While in peace thy bark is riding,
And the silver moon is gliding
O'er the sky with tranquil splendor,
Where the shining hosts attend her;
Let the brightest visions be
Country, home and friends, to thee!

When the tempest hovers o'er thee,
Danger, wreck, and death before thee,
While the sword of fire is gleaming,
Wild the winds, the torrent streaming,
Then, a pious suppliant bending,
Let thy thoughts to heaven ascending
Reach the mercy seat, to be
Met by prayers that rise for thee !

LINES.

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM.

BY F. G. HALLECK.

THE song that o'er me hovered

In summer's hour, in summer's hour,

To day with joy has covered

My winter bower, my winter bower. Blest be the lips that breathe it,

As mine have been, as mine have been,

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When pressed, in dreams, beneath it,
To hers unseen, to hers unseen.
And may her heart, wherever

Its hope may be, its hope may be,
Beat happily, though never

To beat for me, to beat for me.

Is she a Spirit, given

One hour to earth, one hour to earth, To bring me dreams from heaven,

Her place of birth, her place of birth ? Or minstrel maiden, hidden

Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun,

A bud, a flower, forbidden

To air and sun, to air and sun?

For had I power to summon

With harp divine, with harp divine,

The Angel, or the Woman,

The last were mine, the last were mine.

If earth-born Beauty's fingers

Awaked the lay, awaked the lay,

Whose echoed music lingers

Around my way, around my way;

Where smiles the hearth she blesses

With voice and eye, with voice and eye? Where binds the Night her tresses,

When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh? Is fashion's bleak cold mountain

Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne?

LINES.

Or love's green vale and fountain,
With One alone, with One alone?

Why ask? why seek a treasure,

Like her I sing, like her I sing? Her name nor pain nor pleasure

To me should bring, to me should bring. Love must not grieve or gladden

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My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, Nor woman soothe or sadden

My path below, my path below.

Before a worldlier altar

I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long,

And if my footsteps falter,

'Tis but in song, 't is but in song.

Nor would I break the vision

Young fancies frame, young fancies frame,

That lights with stars elysian,

A poet's name, a poet's name;

For she, whose gentle spirit

Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime,

Gives hues they do not merit

To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme.

But place the proudest near her,

Whate'er his pen, whate'er his pen,

She'll say, (be mute who hear her,)
'Mere mortal men, mere mortal men!'

Yet though unseen, unseeing,

We meet and part, we meet and part,

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THE DYING SENECA

Be still my worshipped Being,

In mind and heart, in mind and heart. And bid thy song that found me—

My minstrel maid, my minstrel maid! Be winter's sunbeam round me,

And summer's shade, and summer's shade. I could not gaze upon thee,

And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell,

And, when a happier won thee,

Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell.

THE DYING SENECA.

He died not as the martyr dies,

Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; He fell not as the warrior falls,

Gasping upon the field of fame;

A gentler passage to the grave
The murderer's softened fury gave.

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles
Had tracked the purpled demon's path,
And yet another victim lived

To fill the fiery scroll of wrath;
Could not imperial vengeance spare
His furrowed brow and silver hair?

The field was sown with noble blood,

The harvest reaped in bitter tears,