The Frog in the water, the Cricket on land,

The Night-hawk in the sky,

With the Whipperwill should be my band,

While gayly by the streamlet's sand,
The Lightning-bug should fly.'

Her wish is granted-Off she flings
The robes that her beauty hid;
She wraps herself in her silken wings,
And near me now she sits and sings,
And tells what Caty did."

A beam from the waning moon was shot,
Where the little minstrel hid,
A cobweb from the cloud was let,
And down I boldly slid.

A hollow hailstone on my head,
For a glittering helm was clasp'd,
And a sharpen'd spear, like an icicle clear,
In my cold little fingers was grasp'd.

Silent, and resting on their arms,
I viewed my forces nigh,
Waiting the sign on earth to land,

Or bivouac in the sky.

From a birchen bough, which yellow turn'd
Beneath my withering lance;

I pointed them to that glassy pool,
And silently they advanc'd.

The water crisp'd beneath their feet
It never felt their weights;

And nothing but the rising sun,

Show'd traces of their skates.

No horn I sounded, no shout I made,
But I lifted my vizor lid,

My felt-shod foot on the leaf I put,
And kill'd the Caty-did.

Her song went down the southern wind,

Her last breath up the stream; But a rustling branch is left behind,

To fan her wakeless dream.

MR. MERRY'S

LAMENT FOR "LONG TOM,”

Whose Drowning is mentioned in the sixth chapter of the second volume of THE PILOT, by the author of

The Pioneers.

"Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore."

THY cruise is over now,

Thou art anchor'd by the shore,

And never more shalt thou

Hear the storm around thee roar;

Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
Now around thee sports the whale,

And the porpoise snuffs the gale,

And the night-winds wake their wail,

As they pass.

1

The sea-grass round thy bier

Shall bend beneath the tide,

Nor tell the breakers near

Where thy manly limbs abide;

But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.
Though the edges of thy grave
Are the combings of the wave-
Yet unheeded they shall rave

Over thee.

At the piping of all hands,

When the judgment signal's spread— When the islands, and the lands,

And the seas give up their dead,

And the south and the north shall come;
When the sinner is betray'd,

And the just man is afraid,
Then Heaven be thy aid,

Poor Tom.

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD,

AT EDINBURGH.

"The spider's most attenuated thread,
Is cord-is cable, to man's tender tie
On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze."

ANOTHER! 'tis a sad word to the heart,

That one by one has lost its hold on life,
From all it lov'd or valued, forc'd to part

In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife
That cuts at once and kills-its tortur'd strife
Is with distilled affliction, drop by drop
Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife

With grief and sorrow ; all that we would prop,

Or would be propp'd with, falls-when shall the ruin

stop!