"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! This was the peasant's last good night;- Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. CLXXXIV. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. ALL is finished, and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, She starts, she moves, - she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, She leaps into the ocean's arms. And lo! from the assembled crowd "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; With all her youth and all her charms." How beautiful she is! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Through wind and wave, right onward steer! Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life, Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! With all its hopes of future years, Fear not each sudden sound and shock; Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our teafs, Are all with thee are all with thee. H W. Longfellow. CLXXXV. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn ; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask. Me from my delights to sever, |