THE MARINER'S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind: But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ;— Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest—
O God! thou hast blessed me, I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that flame which now glares on his eye

?

Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on bis ear? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky!

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

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 frost-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 form or fame from the merciless surge-
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge!

On a bed of sea-green flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow,
Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
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 !

Dimond.

DUNOON.

See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp,
From a beam of the rising moon;
On the heathy shore at evening fall,
"Twixt Holy-Loch and dark Dunoon;
Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare,

From the dew-clad, moorland flower,
Invite my wandering footsteps there,
At the lonely twilight hour.

When the distant beacon's revolving light
Bids my lone steps seek the shore,

There the rush of the flow-tide's rippling wave
Meets the dash of the fisher's oar;

And the dim-seen steam-boat's hollow sound,
As she sea-ward tracks her way;

All else are asleep in the still calm night,
And robed in the misty gray.

When the glow-worm lits her elfin lamp,
And the night breeze sweeps the hill,

It's sweet, on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon,
To wander at fancy's will.

Eliza! with thee, in this solitude,

Life's cares would pass away,

Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun,
At the wake of early day.

SONNET.

TO MRS UNWIN.

Thomas Lyle.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence not given to mortals, new, And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verses musical, as thou art true,Verse that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book, By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary! shine,

And since thou own'st that praise-I spare thee mine.

Cowper.