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Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken,
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken,
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee-
For thou art alone on the raging sea:

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone-

To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save—
God shield thee, helpless one!

The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past,
The trembling hands on the deep are cast,

The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.

Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell,
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep,
There thou shalt slumber well.

The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side,
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,

As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

A peopled home is the ocean bed,

The mother and child are there

The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe with its silken hair;

As the water moveth they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play;
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.

Charles Fenno Hoffman.

BORN in New York, N. Y., 1806. DIED at Harrisburg, Penn., 1884.

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(And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?)

One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus were told
That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out!

But determined to send round the goblet once more,
They sued to the fairer immortals for aid

In composing a draught which, till drinking were o’er,
Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn,

And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth from the dew of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again.

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Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
Were scattered profusely in every one's reach,
When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard,
Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The liquids were mingled while Venus looked on
With glances so fraught with sweet magical power,
That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone,
Has never been missed in the draught from that hour.

Flora, then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook,
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

The draught was delicious, and loud the acclaim,
Though something seemed wanting for all to bewail,

But JULEPS the drink of immortals became,

When JOVE himself added a handful of hail.


Matthew Fontaine Maury.

BORN in Spottsylvania Co., Va., 1806. DIED at Lexington, Va., 1873.


[The Physical Geography of the Sea. 1855.—Revised Edition. 1860.]


RESENTLY the stars begin to peep out, timidly at first, as if to see whether the elements here below had ceased their strife, and if the scene on earth be such as they, from bright spheres aloft, may shed their sweet influences upon. Sirius, or that blazing world n Argus, may be the first watcher to send down a feeble ray; then follow another and another, all smiling meekly; but presently, in the short twilight of the latitude, the bright leaders of the starry host blaze forth in all their glory, and the sky is decked and spangled with superb brilliants. In the twinkling of an eye, and faster than the admiring gazer can tell, the stars seem to leap out from their hiding-places. By invisible hands, and in quick succession, the constellations are hung out; but first of all, and with dazzling glory, in the azure depths of space appears the Great Southern Cross. That shining symbol lends a holy grandeur to the scene, making it still more impressive. Alone in the night-watch, after the sea-breeze has sunk to rest, I have stood on the deck under those

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