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THE FUNERAL AT SEA.
BY HENRY J. FINN.
DEEP mists hung over the mariner's grave
When the holy funeral rite was read; And every breath on the dark blue wave
Seemed hushed, to hallow the friendless dead.
And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,
The ship that sheltered that homeless oneAs though his funeral-hour should be
When the waves were still and the winds were gone.
And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud
And strangers were round the coffinless : Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,
Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.
No sound from the church's passing-bell
Was echoed along the pathless deep, The hearts that were far away to tell
Where the mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.
Not a whisper then lingered upon the air
O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent; But the plunging sound of the dead was there
And the ocean is now his monument !
But many a sigh, and many a tear,
Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to come When the widow and fatherless shall hear
How he died, far, far from his happy home!
LIFE A DREAM.
BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE.
Our life is a dream-when memory surveys
The youth is in Eden, beneath the fresh bowers,
The friend, whose dark destiny long had been wept,
The minstrel exults-for his exile is o'er;
“ And where," asks the youth, “is my nosegay of
flowers, Which I thought I had wove in the shade of the bowers ?" And where, hapless child, is the parent you pressed, In the rapture of joy, to your languishing breast ?
And where is the smile of that friend who returned From his slumber, and asked why so sadly I mourned ? 'Twas a phantom-too gay, when it sports on the mind; But a phantom which alway leaves sorrow behind.
So passes our life : in the slumber of night
THE CHARTER OAK.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
CHARTER Oak! Charter Oak !
Tell us a tale
Like the leaves on the gale:
On thy brown root and stem,
For Liberty's gem.
Speak out in thy wisdom,
Will listen to thee;
Is dear in our eyes,
As relics we prize.
I see them—they come
The dim ages of oldThe sires of our nation,
True-hearted, and bold; The axe of the woodman
Rings sharp through the glade, And the worn Indian hunter
Reclines in thy shade,
I see them
they come ! The gray fathers are there, Who won from the forest
This heritage fair ; With their high trust in heaven,
As they suffered or toiled, Both the tempest and tyrant,
Unblenching, they foiled.
Charter Oak! Charter Oak !
Ancient and fair, Thou didst guard of our freedom
The rudiment rare ;
So, a crown of green leaves
Be thy gift, noble tree,
And the thanks of the free!
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
BY JAMES ALDRICH.
In beauty lingers on the hills
The death-smile of the dying day:
The softness of its rosy ray.
Here, standing by my mother's grave,
Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.
God gives us ministers of love,
Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us, then we feel
That angels have been with us here! As mother, sister, friend, or wife,
They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain; And, when the grave has closed between
Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!