"I'll take care of that, sir; I've been in the state prison three years already, and you wont catch me there again, I warrant you."

"What do you mean, Billy?"

"I mean, that there is little or no odds between a a state ship and a state prison," said Billy, with a face longer than ever, and a most expressive shrug.

Captain R proceeded on his way, reflecting on the singular story of Billy Morgan, whose pranks on board the frigate had convinced some hundreds of men of the existence of ghosts, and thrown the gloom of superstitious horror over the remainder of their existence. "Not a sailor," thought he, "out of more than five hundred, with the exception of a single one, but will go to his grave in the full belief in the appearance of Billy Morgan's ghost. What an unlucky rencounter this of mine; it has spoiled one of the best authenticated ghost stories of the age."

FIRST OF MAY.

THERE is music on the breeze,

From a thousand tiny throats; And amid the blossom'd trees,

The wild birds pour their notes;

The rivers flow along,

With a murmur like a song;

But alas! I am sad, I am sad.

There's perfume on the air,

From the early budding flowers;

Bright, beautiful, and fair,

They gem the woodland bowers,

Of every hue and dye,

To tempt the vagrant eye;

But alas! I am sad, I am sad.

'Tis the sunny first of May,

She is tripping on the earth,

To the wild bird's joyous lay ;

Fresh flowerets hail her birth,

And with fragrant kisses greet

The coming of her feet;

But alas! I am sad, I am sad.

For the birds and perfumed flowers,
And the waters glancing bright,

But remind me of those hours

Of exquisite delight

That lang syne first of May

With its glorious array,

When ah! I was glad, I was glad.

The friends my spirit loved,

Were wandering by my side;
Whilst through the woods we roved,
Or watch'd the waters glide

In white and glittering foam,
To their far off ocean home;

And ah! I was glad, I was glad.

But time hath all things changed,

Those blessings all have flown;

The absent and estranged

Have left my heart alone;

Then how can I be gay

On this merry first of May?

Ah no! I am sad, I am sad.

THE PARTING.

BY FREDERIC MELLEN.

She pass'd, and yet I still gazed on and wept.

WALTER.

WELL! be it so !—and part!

I would not even look upon thy brow,

Though for the last sad time;-my heart

Is cold and wither'd now.

Yet still I gaze at thee;

Like one whose vision resteth on his home,

As the dark ship speeds o'er the troubled sea, Breasting the surge's foam.

And as in slumber, oft,

Glimpses of that bright clime his heart expand;

And low sweet tones, as angel music soft, Whisper of father land;'

So in my lonely hours,

Like to the sea-boy's dream, thy voice shall send
Its low sweet music there, and, wreath'd in flowers,
Thy spirit o'er me bend.

And in the summer's eve,

When winds and waves are gather'd to their sleep;
And the cold evening mist begins to weave
Its shrouds upon the deep;

Beneath the star's pale light;

When the dull eye is slumb'ring, and the moan
Of the deep shadow'd woods, far through the night,
Breaks on the ear alone,

I'll come to thee; and tell

Of long past days, life's earliest, happiest time, When ling'ring on our path we heard the swell

Of the deep surge's chime;

And look'd into the sky,

And saw the clouds float through the starlight clear, And felt within our hearts, we know not why, A withering, nameless fear.