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I COME from the deeps where the mermaiden twines,
In her bowers of amber, her garlands of shells : Where the sands are of gold, and, of crystal the vines,
And the spirit of gladness unchangingly dwells — I breathed on the harp at Zephyrus' cave,
And the strain, as it rose, glided upward with me; No dwelling on earth, but my home is the wave,
And my couch is the coral grove, deep in the sea.
SONG OF THE ZEPHYR SPIRIT.
Thou hast dreamed-hast thou not ? -- of those wave
girdled bowers, Where all that can win the heart, beams on the sight: Where life is a frolic through fancies and flowers,
And the soul lives in dreams of a lasting delight, Thou wouldst win what thy dreams have long brought
to thy view, Thou wouldst dwell with the moon that now beams
upon thee, To the fears of the earth — to its cares, bid adieu,
Come, rest in the coral grove, deep in the sea.
With my breath I will fan thee when noon-day is nigh,
The gentlest of mermaids will lull thee to sleep; She will watch by thy couch when the sun passes by,
Nor fly when the moon leaves her home in the deep. Each joy thou hast sighed for, shall there be thine own,
The sorrows of time from thy slumbers shall flee, Then come with me - win all the pleasures I've shown,
Come rest in the coral grove, deep in the sea.
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Old cradle of an infant world,
In which a nestling empire lay,
Her gallant wing and soared away,
What solemn recollections throng,
What touching visions rise,
I backward turn mine eyes,
The wonders of an age combined
In one short moment memory supplies,
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
They throng upon my wakened mind,
As time's dark curtains rise. · The volume of a hundred buried years,
Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.
I hear the angry ocean rave,
I see the lonely little barque
Freighted like old Noah's ark,
I see a train of exiles stand,
Amid the desert, desolate,
I see the gloomy Indian range
His woodland empire, free as air;
The shadowy earth laid bare,
I see the haughty warrior gaze
In wonder or in scorn,
As the pale faces sweat to raise
Their scanty fields of corn,
A moment, and the pageant's gone;
The red men are no more;
Upon the river's shore ;
The forest reels beneath the stroke
Of sturdy woodman's axe;
And pays her willing tax
Then growing hamlets rear their heads,
And gathering crowds expand,
O’er many a boundless land,
Empire to empire swift succeeds,
Each happy, great, and free;