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THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA,

Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,

And spoil his cruel wiles.

And keep, where sail the merchant ships,
Stern watch on their highway,

And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,

A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!—
While crime doth govern men,

'Tis fit such bulwark of the brine
Should leave the shores of PENN;

For hid within thy giant strength
Are germs of welcome Peace,
And such as thou, shall cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,
Word of thy beauty's past,

And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast-

Assured that in thy prowess, thou

For her wilt win renown,

Whose sons can die, but know not how

To strike that pennon down.

EVENING.

BY ELIZA FOLLEN.

THE sun is set, the day is o'er,
And labor's voice is heard no more;
On high, the silver moon is hung;

The birds their vesper hymns have sung,
Save one, who oft breaks forth anew,
To chant another sweet adieu

To all the glories of the day,
And all its pleasures passed away.
Her twilight robe all nature wears,
And evening sheds her fragrant tears,
Which every thirsty plant receives,
While silence trembles on its leaves.

From every tree and every bush,

There seems to breathe a soothing hush; While every transient sound but shows

How deep and still is the repose.

Thus calm and fair may all things be,

When life's last sun has set with me;

And may the lamp of memory shine
As sweetly on my day's decline,

As yon pale crescent, pure and fair,
That hangs so safely in the air,
And pours her mild, reflected light,
To soothe and bless the weary sight.

And may my spirit often wake

Like thine, sweet bird; and, singing, take
Another farewell of the sun,—

Of pleasures past, of labors done.

See, where the glorious sun has set,

A line of light is lingering yet:
O, thus may love awhile illume
The silent darkness of my tomb.

ODE TO THE MOON.

BY ROBERT M. BIRD.

O MELANCHOLY Moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,
Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,
The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.

Mine earliest friend wert thou:

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the chequered bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be

The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul,

P

134

ODE TO THE MOON.

And seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace
Remembered features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern
Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill-

The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth,

Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,
Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art my only counsellor, with whom

Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, which is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak :-
I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak