He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck, –

Amazement confronts him with images dire;Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck

The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire !

Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell —

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save ;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!

Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frosi-work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright,

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss?

Oh, sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main

Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem thy lost form from the merciless surgeBut the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge!

On a bed of sea-flowers thy pale limbs shall be laid,

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,

And each tribe of the deep haunt thy mansion below.

away,

Days, months, years, and ages

shall circle And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Frail short-sighted mortals their doom must obey

Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

FIRST- LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.

BY JOHN CLARE.

Oh, long be my heart with such memories filled !
Like the vase in which odours have once been distilled ;
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
Bat the scent of the roses will hang round it still!

MOOR E.

First love will with the heart remain

When its hopes are all gone by;
As frail rose-blossoms still retain

Their fragrance when they die.
And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind

With the shades from which they sprung;
As summer leaves the stems behind

On which spring's blossoms hung.

Mary! I dare not call thee dear,

I've lost that right so long ;
Yet once again I vex thine ear

With memory's idle song:
Had time and change not blotted out

The love of former days,
Thou wert the last that I should doubt

Of pleasing with my praise.

When honied tokens from each tongue

Told with what truth we loved, How rapturous to thy lips I clung,

Whilst nought but smiles reproved !
But now, methinks, if one kind word

Were whispered in thine ear,
Thou ’dst startle like an untamed bird,

And blush with wilder fear!

How loth to part, how fond to meet,

Had we two used to be!

At sunset with what

eager

feet I hastened on to thee! Scarce nine days passed us ere we met

In spring, nay, wintry weather; Now nine years' suns have risen and set,

Nor found us once together!

Thy face was so familiar grown,

Thyself so often nigh,
A moment's memory when alone

Would bring thee to mine eye:
But now, my very dreams forget

That 'witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet,

It wears a stranger's face!

I felt a pride to name thy name,

But now that pride hath flown;
And burning blushes speak my shame

That thus I love thee on!
I felt I then thy heart did share,

Nor urged a binding vow;
But much I doubt if thou couldst spare

One word of kindness now.

Oh! what is now my name to thee,

Though once nought seemed so dear? Perhaps a jest in hours of glee,

To please some idle ear.
And yet, like counterfeits, with me

Impressions linger on,
Though all the gilded finery

That passed for truth is gone!

Ere the world smiled upon my lays,

A sweeter meed was mine;
Thy blushing look of ready praise

Was raised at every line.

But now methinks thy fervent love

Is changed to scorn severe;
And songs that other hearts approve

Seem discord to thine ear.

When last thy gentle cheek I prest,

And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest

Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours;
Spring bids full many buds to swell,

That ne'er can grow to flowers !
Literary Souvenir.

BOLTON ABBEY.

This is the loveliest scene in all the land ;

Around me far a green enchantment lies,

Fed by the weeping of these April skies, And touched by Fancy's fine, "all-charming wand.” Almost I expect to see a lightsome band

Come stealing through the hazel boughs, that cross

My path, or half asleep on bank of moss, Some Satyr, with stretched arm and clenched hand.

It is a place all beauty. There, half hid By yellowing ash and drooping aspens, run The river waters swift to meet the sun;

And in the distance, in its boiling might, The fatal fall is seen, the thundering STRID;

And over all, the morning blue and bright!

TO THE MEMORY OF HOWARD,

THE PHILANTHROPIST.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

Why, when the souls we loved are fled,

Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed

In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,

In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,
Ray of the life that once hath been!

It is that we would thence create

Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date

Eternally to last.
It is, to hallow — whilst regret
Is busy with their actions yet-

The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.

Such, and so fair, in day's decline

The hues which Nature gives;
Yet-yet- though suns have ceased to shine,

Her fair creation lives :
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,

Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.

Else, why when rified stands the tower,

The column overthrown,
And, record of man's pride or power,

Crumbles the storying stone;