DEPARTED DAYS.

YES, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory's hand restore
Your Morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once more,-
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.

But, like a child in ocean's arms,
We strive against the stream,

Each moment farther from the shore

Where life's young fountains gleam;

Each moment fainter wave the fields,

And wider rolls the sea;

The mist grows dark,—the sun goes down,Day breaks, and where are we?

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heaped and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;
And, burning o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,

When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders foaming by;

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,

The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;

Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrowed sail ;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,

Before this smoky wreath has stained

The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,

I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,
White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;

Sleep on, and, when the morning light

Streams o'er the shining bay,

O think of those for whom the night

Shall never wake in day!