See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds ;
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters, away and away!

Bright, as the visions of youth ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!-
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high,
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
"Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!"
Night on the waves! and the moon is on high,
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky;
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light:
Look to the waters! asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who,-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty, could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within!
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers, that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever-
Hearts that are parted, and broken for ever?
Or dreams that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
'Tis thus with our life:-While it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song,
Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled:

All gladness and glory to wandering eyes

But chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs!

Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know,

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

XLII.-THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.-Bryant.

WHEN spring to woods and wastes around

Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch above him hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung.

And nodded careless by,

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert-snow,
Unarmed and hard beset;-

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,

The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;-

:

"Behold a tide of Persian steel-
A torrent of the Median car!
Like flame their gory banners wheel ;-
Rise, King! and arm thee for the war!"
Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past-
The lofty chamber filled with gloom;
But echoed on the sudden blast,

The rushing of a mighty plume.
He listened :-all again was still:
He heard no chariot's iron clang;-
He heard the fountain's gushing rill,
The breeze that through the roses sang.
He slept-in sleep wild murmurs came;
A visioned splendour fired the sky;
He heard Belshazzar's taunted name;-
He heard again the Prophet cry—
"Sleep, Sultan! 'tis thy final sleep!-
Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies!
The wrongs of those who watch and weep,
Around thee and thy nation rise!"
He started:-'Mid the battle's yell,
He heard the Persian rushing on-
He saw the flames around him swell-
-Thou'rt ashes! King of Babylon.

XLIV. THE GRASP OF THE DEAD.-Mrs. Maclean.
'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Looked down on the dead and dying;
And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful Chief; but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
A Soldier paused beside it:

He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his swelling heart
Took part with the dead before him;

And he honoured the brave who died sword in hand

As with softened brow he leaned o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,

A soldier's grave won by it:

Before I would take that sword from thine hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf, to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior-foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping!

XLV. THE SPRING JOURNEY.-Bishop Heber.
On, green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sang jovial and loud:
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,

I felt a new pleasure as onward I sped,

To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad over head.

Oh, such be Life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in our blessings the sense of its ill;

Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of Heaven!

XLVI.-TIME. - Sir Walter Scott.

WHY sitt'st thou by that ruined hall,
Thou aged carle, so stern and gray?
Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it passed away?

"Know'st thou not me ?" the Deep Voice cried,
"So long enjoyed, so oft misused-
Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused?

Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax-
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
Redeem thine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver;

For, measureless thy joy or grief,

When Time and thou shall part for ever!"

XLVII.-THE SPANISH CHAMPION.-Mrs. Hemans.

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire:
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train;
I pledge my faith;-my liege, my lord, oh! break my father's chain!"

"Rise! rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day: Mount thy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rode that loyal son, and bounded on his steed; And urged, as if with lance in hand, his charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, they saw a glittering band, With one that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father,—whom thy grateful heart hath yearned so long to see.” His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheeks' hue came and went;

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there dismounting bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent-his father's hand he took;
-What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold! a frozen thing!-it dropped from his like lead!
He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er that noble brow-the brow was fixed and white! He met at length his father's eyes-but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who can paint that gaze?

They hushed their very hearts who saw its horror and amaze:

They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood;
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his cheek the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood
then-

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men:-
He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his high renown;
Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down;
And, covering with his steel-gloved hand his darkly mournful brow,
'No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;
My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father-oh! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!"

Up from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the monarch's rein,

Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ;

And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face the King, before the dead!
"Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?
Be still! and gaze thou on, false King! and tell me, what is this?
The look, the voice, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay !
"Into those glassy eyes put light: be still, keep down thine ire;
Bid those cold lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire!
Give me back him for whom I fought, for whom my blood was shed!
Thou canst not, and a king? his dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the rein-his slack hand fell;-upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, mournful glance, and fled from that sad place.
His after-fate no more was heard amid the martial train;

His banner led the spears no more among the hills of Spain!