THE DEAD MARINER. BY G. D. PRENTICE. SLEEP on-sleep on-above thy corse O'er thee, mild eve her beauty flings, And the blue halcyon loves to lave Her plumage in the holy wave. Sleep on-no willow o'er thee bends With melancholy air, No violet springs, nor dewy rose Its soul of love lays bare; But there the sea-flower bright and young The pale flag hangs its tresses there. THE DEAD MARINER. Sleep on-sleep on-the glittering depths Of ocean's coral caves; Are thy bright urn-thy requiem The music of its waves ;- Sleep on-sleep on-the fearful wrath But when the wave has sunk to rest, As now 'twill murmur o'er thy breast; And the bright victims of the sea Perchance will make their home with thee. Sleep on-thy corse is far away, But love bewails thee yet, For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed, And lovely eyes are wet: And she, the young and beauteous bride, As oft she turns to view with tears The Eden of departed years. 281 TO THE EVENING WIND. BY W. C. BRYANT. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou spray And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. то THE EVENING WIND. Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 283 Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. |