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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 scenes that have sped with the flight of her days,
They resemble those visions of grief or delight,
Which so frequently dance on the mind, for a night.

The youth is in Eden, beneath the fresh bowers,
Or culling his temples a chaplet of flowers :
The glad offspring embraces its parent again,
And hears the fond voice it had longed for in vain.

The friend, whose dark destiny long had been wept,
And whose dust the four winds of the heavens had swept,
In the smiles of an angel from slumber returns,
And asks his beloved, “Why so sadly he mourns ?

The minstrel exults-for his exile is o'er;
And he rouses his harp from its silence once more-
But the least breathing whisper, the stir of a leaf,
Ushers in on the fancy the morning of grief !

“ 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 fancy is gilded with dreams of delight-
But, ah! when again from that slumber we rise,
Every dream about pleasure deceitfully flies.

THE CHARTER OAK.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

CHARTER Oak! Charter Oak !

Tell us a tale
Of the years that have fled

Like the leaves on the gale:
For thou bear'st a brave annal

On thy brown root and stem,
And thy heart was a casket

For Liberty's gem.

Speak out in thy wisdom,

Oracular tree,
And we and our children

Will listen to thee;
For the lore of the aged

Is dear in our eyes,
And thy leaves and thine acorns

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,
With the love of the brave,

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:
And twilight in my heart instils

The softness of its rosy ray.
I watch the river's peaceful flow,

Here, standing by my mother's grave,
And feel my dreams of glory go,

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!

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