THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

CLOUDS gathered o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun waxed dim and pale,

And the music of the waves was changed
To the plaintive voice of wail;
And fearfully the lightning flashed
Around the ship's tall mast,

While mournfully through the creaking shrouds

Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank

Before the deepening gloom;

For they gazed on the black and boiling sea

As 'twere a yawning tomb;

But on the vessel's deck stood one

With proud and changeless brow; Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;

Unheeding, though with fiercer strength

The threatening tempest roared;

Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:

"For me there yet is hope,

The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage,

Proudly I yet can claim,

Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame."

The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,

Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death;
But 'mid the billows still was seen

The stranger's struggling form;

And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm

He buffeted the wave,

The other upheld that treasured prize

He would give life to save.

Was then the love of pelf so strong

That e'en in death's dark hour, The base-born passion could awake With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,

Through lonely years of changeless woe,

Beneath that casket's lid;

For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem

That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent,

His nerveless limbs no more

Could bear him on through the waves that rose Like barriers to the shore;

Yet still he held his long prized wealth,

He saw the wished-for land—

A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died
Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect
Bowed down his haughty soul:
Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoen's humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

LOVE AND FAITH; A BALLAD.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

"Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather,
A rosy, warm, inviting hour,

That Love and Faith went out together,
And took the path to Beauty's bower.
Love laughed and frolicked all the way,
While sober Faith, as on they rambled,
Allowed the thoughtless boy to play,

But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.

So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled

Upon the guests whom chance had sent her, That Love and Faith were both beguiled

The grotto of the nymph to enter;

And when the curtains of the skies

The drowsy hand of Night was closing, Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes,

While Faith was on her heart reposing.

Love thought he never saw a pair

So softly radiant in their beaming;
Faith deemed that he could meet no where
So sweet and safe a place to dream in;
And there, for life in bright content,

Enchained, they must have still been lying,
For Love his wings to Faith had lent,
And Faith he never dream'd of flying.

But Beauty, though she liked the child,
With all his winning ways about him,
Upon his mentor never smiled,

And thought that Love might do without him;

"Tis said, that in his wandering

Love still around that spot will hover,

Like bird that on bewildered wing
Her parted mate pines to discover;

And true it is that Beauty's door
Is often by the idler haunted;

But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more

The spell that held his wings enchanted.

THE LAST SONG.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

STRIKE the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;

Then let the melancholy strain

Be hushed in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,
Creative fancy, be thou still;
And let oblivious Lethe pour
Upon my lyre its waters chill.

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Then be its fitful chords unstrung,

Silent as is the grave's domain,

And mute as the death-mouldered tongue, Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song ;

Forgotten, too, be this farewell,

Which plays its pensive strings along!

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,
And they shall sound no more for aye:

And hang it on the cypress tree,

The hours of youth and song have passed,

Have gone, with all their witchery;

Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.