Then, as down to ocean glancing,
In 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.

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 splendour,
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!

H. Gould.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

Alone I walked the ocean-strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stooped, and wrote upon the sand.
My name the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast :
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me—my day—the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.

And yet with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in His hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part hath wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.

H. Gould.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover

Rings a low farewell:

Now the birds of Autumn shiver,

Where the withered beech-leaves quiver,

O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,

Reddening in the rising sun :

Now the flowers around the fountains

Perish one by one:

Not a spire of grass is growing,

But the leaves that late were glowing, Now its blighted green are strowing With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrowed glade,
Not, as when in winter pealing,
Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,

As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering
Round the clifted rock's bare height-
All the bordering mountains covering
With a dim, uncertain light:
Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stained moon is riding Through the still and hazy air,

Like a sheeted spectre gliding

In the torch's glare:

Few the hours her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven.
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.

Percival.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

Faintly. flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,

Keep thy calm unruffled way:
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.

Roses bloom, and then they wither:

Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither— Then, like visions, hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-coloured west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest.

Percival.