THE WASP AND THE HORNET.

THE two proud sisters of the sea,
In glory and in doom!

Well

may the eternal waters be
Their broad, unsculptured tomb!
The wind that rings along the wave,
The clear, unshadowed sun,
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave,
Whose last green wreath is won!

No stranger-hand their banners furled,
No victor's shout they heard;
Unseen, above them ocean curled,

Save by his own pale bird;
The gnashing billows heaved and fell;
Wild shrieked the midnight gale;
Far, far beneath the morning swell
Were pennon, spar, and sail.

Sea and shore

The land of Freedom!
Are guarded now, as when
Her ebbing waves to victory bore
Fair barks and gallant men;
O many a ship of prouder name
May wave her starry fold,
Nor trail, with deeper light of fame,
The paths they swept of old!

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL.

SWEET Mary, I have never breathed
The love it were in vain to name;
Though round my heart a serpent wreathed,
I smiled, or strove to smile, the same.

Once more the pulse of Nature glows

With faster throb and fresher fire, While music round her pathway flows Like echoes from a hidden lyre.

And is there none with me to share

The glories of the earth and sky? The eagle through the pathless air

Is followed by one burning eye.

Ah no! the cradled flowers may wake,
Again may flow the frozen sea,
From every cloud a star may break,
There comes no second Spring to me.

60

FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL.

Go,ere the painted toys of youth

Are crushed beneath the tread of years;
Ere visions have been chilled to truth,
And hopes are washed away in tears.

Go, for I will not bid thee weep,
Too soon my sorrows will be thine,
And evening's troubled air shall sweep
The incense from the broken shrine.

If Heaven can hear the dying tone

Of chords that soon will cease to thrill,
The prayer that Heaven has heard alone,
May bless thee when those chords are still!

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly-whispered tone Is far, far sweeter unto me.

Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;
But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies,

And nought but empty air I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze hath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;

That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.