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I remember Master Snelling

I never can forget,
He made me write and cipher too;-

That man is living yet :-
I remember the old cowskin well,

Which filled us all with fear-
I never liked the thing—and hope

He has not brought it here.

I remember how impatient

We boys were of the rules-
We longed to grow to man's estate,

And shake off all the schools
I since have found those visions vain ;-

And, oh! 'tis little joy,
To find I know less Latin now,

Than when I was a boy.

THE OCEAN DEAD.

BY M. BECK.

How calmly they sleep on the ocean floor,
By the sparkling gem and the gilded ore,
The shining sand and the glittering stone,
With the wealth of the ocean deep gone down.
Youth and beauty, and age and care,
Have lain them down in chambers there;
And the opening bud and spreading flower
Bloom side by side in the coral bower.

And what to them is the angry roar
As the surges lash the pebbly shore-
Or the sea-bird's shriek o'er the troubled deep,
Where they sleep on in their dreamless sleep!
Sleep on, sleep on, in your lowly graves,
Beneath the swell of the curling waves,
And the tempest and wind shall the requiem be
Of the sleepers who rest in the deep, deep sea.

WRITTEN AT SEA.

BY G. HILL.

The stars, through falling dews, that steep

The shades of twilight, faintly shine;
And, if they weep not, seem to weep,

In silence, o'er the day's decline;
O'er hues, that, though they fast decay,

And set in darkness, soon return;
But who for me, when gone far away

Will mourn, nay, who will seem to mourn?

Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The sands shall heap my stoneless grave; Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The thunder of the ocean wave;
The wind, whose voice its breakers mock,

Bear my last sigh unheard away-
The shadow of the mountain rock

Forbid a flower to deck my clay.

And yet, since none will smile the less

When I am gone-the ocean foam, The column of the wilderness,

'The sea-rock, were my fitting tomb, My life yon orb, on which I gaze,

My image well-lone, dim, and far: And death to me will be but as

The setting of that nameless star!

SHE SLEEPS.

BY MARY EMILY JACKSON.

She sleeps! no ght is on her brow,

No griefs torment her heart's deep aching; No vision haunts her slumbers now She sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. She sleeps ! and worms must revel deep

Upon that brow, made pale by sorrow. She sleeps! and dreamless is that sleep

Which knows no coming of the morrow.

She sleeps! no smile illames her eye,

Now closed forever from its weeping, Her cheeks have lost their wonted dye

She wakes no more from death's cold sleeping. She sleeps! and earth must close around

Her narrow bed, till earth be riven, And the last trump of God shall sound,

To call her slumbering dust to Heaven.

THE SNOW STORM.

BY SEBA SMITH.

The cold wind swept the mountain's height,

And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow-

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone.
“O God!" she cried, in accents wild,
“If I must perish, save my child."

She stript her mantle from her breast,

And bared her bosom to the storm;
As round the child she wrapped the vest,

She smiled to think that it was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil-
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale-
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

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