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THE DEAD MARINER.
B Y G. D. P R E N T I C E.

SLEEP on—sleep on—above thy corse
The winds their Sabbath keep, —
The wave is round thee—and thy breast
Heaves with the heaving deep;
O'er thee, mild eve her beauty flings,
And there the white gull lifts her wings;
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
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung;
And, like a weeping mourner fair,
The pale flag hangs its tresses there.

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Sleep on—sleep on—the glittering depths
Of ocean's coral caves;
Are thy bright urn—thy requiem
The music of its waves;—
The purple gems for ever burn
In fadeless beauty round thy urn;
And, pure and deep as infant love,
The blue sea rolls its waves above.

Sleep on—sleep on—the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep,
May leave its wild and stormy track
Above thy place of sleep.
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,
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side :
As oft she turns to view with tears
The Eden of departed years.

TO THE E V E NING WIND.
B Y W. C. B. R Y A. N. T.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day!
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their
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
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hearthy welcome sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,
God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

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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,
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
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone;
That they who near the church-yard willows stray,
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,
May think of gentle souls that passed away,
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown,
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men,
And gone into the boundless heaven again.

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
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man’s bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

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