Then like them ceas'd-and few could say That he, or they had been.

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

The scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it;

The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it.

The murmur rose soft, as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy wave's playful motion,

From the dim distant isle, till the light-house fire blaz'd
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast,
Was heard in his wildly breath'd numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girded nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.

One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,
(All hush'd was the billows' commotion,)

And tho't that the light-house look'd lovely as hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow

Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion,
Oh! then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean.

THE FISHER.

[From the German of Goethe.]

THE water roll'd, the water swell'd,
A Fisher sat beside;

Calmly his patient watch he held

Beside the fresh'ning tide.

And while his patient watch he keeps,
The parted waters rose,

And from the orgy ocean deeps

A water maiden rose.

She spake to him, she sung to him

6

Why lure'st thou so my brood,.

With cunning hand and cruel heart,

From out their native flood?

'Ah! couldst thou know, how here below,
Our peaceful lives glide o'er,
Thou'dst leave thine earth and plunge beneath,
To seek our happier shore.

'Bathes not the golden sun his face,
The moon, too, in the sea,

And rise they not from their resting place,
More beautiful to see?

6 And lures thee not the clear blue heav'n,
Within the waters blue,-

And thy form so fair, so mirror'd there,
In that eternal dew?'

The water roll'd, the water swell'd,

It reach'd his naked feet;

He felt, as at his love's approach,
His bounding bosom beat;

She spake to him-she sung to him,
His short suspense is o'er ;-
Half drew she him, half dropp'd he in,
And sunk to rise no more.

"THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.
AN Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover slain in battle slept-

Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung.

I've pull'd away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That, shining from the sweet south-west, The sun-beams might rejoice thy rest.

'It was a weary, weary road,

That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost;
Where everlasting summer lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

''Twas I the broider'd mock'son made,
That shod thee for that distant land,
'Twas I the bow and arrows laid
Beside thy still cold hand;

Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

With wampum belts I cross'd thy breast,
And wrapp'd thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleas'd thee best,
In plenty by thy side;

And deck'd thee bravely as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

Thou'rt happy now, for thou art past
The long dark journey of the grave;
And in the land of light at last
Hast join'd the good and brave;

Amid the flush'd and balmy air,
The bravest and the loveliest there.

'Yet, to thy own dear Indian maid,

Thy thot's will sometimes earthward stray, To her who sits where thou wert laid, And weeps the hours away: Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet.

'And thou by one of those still lakes,
That in a shining cluster lie,

On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky-

A bower for me and thee hast made
Beneath the many color'd shade.

And thou dost wait and watch to meet
My spirit sent to join the blest,
And wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest-
Dost seem in every sound to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near.

THE HARPER.

[nigh,

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as 1;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forc'd from my Sheelah to part,
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)
Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly lov'd me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my teet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

A SOLDIER'S THE LAD I ADORE.

A SOLDIER's the lad I adore,

Tho' he's far from his friends and his home,
Love grant I may see him once more,
And march to the roll of his drum.

With plume in his helm, and his sword
By his side, and a hero-like show,
He march'd to the field at the glorious word,
And beat the retreat of the foe.

Full many a youth have I seen,

Who has whisper'd affection to me: But give me the lad with a doublet of green, Who can beat Freedom's reveille.

Should he fall, but I hope he may not,

His spirit shall dwell with the brave, His deeds by his country shall ne'er be forgot, While Freedom weeps over his grave.

Then march to the roll of the drum,

It summons the brave to the plain, Where heroes contend for the home

Which perchance they may ne'er see again.