POETIC PIECES.

ON TIME.

MOV'D by a strange mysterious power, That hastes along the rapid hour,

I touch the deep ton'd string.

E'en now I see his wither'd face,

Beneath yon tower's mouldering base, Where mossy vestments cling.

Dark roll'd his cheerless eye around,
Severe his grisly visage frown'd,
No locks his head array'd,
He grasp❜d a hero's antique bust,
The marble crumbled into dust,

And sunk amidst the shade.

Malignant triumph fill'd his eyes,
"See hapless mortals, see," he cries,
"How vain your idle schemes

Beneath my grasp, the fairest form,
Dissolves and mingles with the worm,
Thus vanish mortal dreams.

The works of God! and man I spoil,
The proudest proof of human toil,
I treat as childish toys.

I crush the noble and the brave,
Beauty I mar, and in the grave
I bury human joys."

Hold! ruthless phantom-hold! I cried, If thou canst mock the dreams of pride, And meaner hopes devour, Virtue beyond thy reach shall bloom, When other charms sink to the tomb, She scorns thy envious power.

On frosty wings the demon fled,
Howling, as o'er the wall he sped,
"Another year is gone!"

The ruin'd spire,-the crumbling tow'r,
Nodding, obey'd his awful pow'r,
As time flew swiftly on.

Since beauty then to time must bow,
And age deform the fairest brow,

Let brighter charms be yours;
The virtuous mind, embalmed in truth,
Shall bloom in everlasting youth,

While time himself endures.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard nor a funeral note,

As his corse o'er the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the trembling moon-beams' misty light,
And our lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,

But like a warrior taking his rest,

His martial cloak wrapt around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
We spoke not a word of sorrow,
But steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,
And bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we, far away o'er the billow.

Lightly they'll speak of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his comrades have laid him.

Not the half of our heavy task was done,
When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we knew by the distant random gun,
That the foe was then suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory,
We carv'd not a line, we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.

THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind:
But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow'rs,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;

While Mem❜ry stood sideways, half cover'd with flow'rs,
And displayed ev'ry rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise,

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes:

The jessamine clambers, in flow'r, o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall,
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of lov'd ones reply to his call;

A Father bends o'er him with looks of delight-
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-
"Kind fate thou hast blest me-I ask for no more."
Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear?

'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky,-
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere.
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images dire;

Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell:
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save,
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave

Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight, In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss.

Where now is the picture that Fancy touch'd bright-
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss?
Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay!
Unblest and unhonor'd, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay:

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge;

On beds of green sea flow'rs thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made;
And ev'ry part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll,
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye:-
Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy!-peace to thy soul!

ANGLING.

The south wind is breathing most sweetly to-day,
The sunshine is veil'd in a mantle of gray,

The Spring rains are past, and the streams leap along,
Not brimming nor shrunken, with sparkle and song;
'Tis the month lov'd by anglers 'tis beautiful June!
Away then, away then, to bright Callikoon!

A narrow wild path through the forest is here,
With light tiny hoof-prints, the trail of the deer!
Beside and above us, what splendor of green!
The eye can scarce pierce the dense branches between.
How lightly this moss-hillock yields to the foot!
How gnarl'd is yon bough, and how twisted that root!
What white and pink clusters the laurel hangs out,
The air one deep hum from the bees all about!
The chesnut-'tis gala day with her-behold
Her leaves nearly cover'd with plumage of gold!
Whilst thick in the depths of the coverts below,
The blackberry blossoms are scattered like snow.
High up, the brown thresher is tuning her lay,
The red crested woodpecker hammers away,
The caw of the crow echoes hoarse from the tops,
The horn of the locust swells shrilly and stops,
While knots of bright butterflies flutter around,
And seeks the strip'd squirrel his cave in the ground.

We break from the tree-groups; a glade deep with grass; The white clover's breath loads the sense as we pass,

A sparkle-a streak-a broad glitter is seen

The bright Callikoon through its thickets of green!
We rush to the banks-its sweet music we hear,
Its gush, dash and gurgle all blent to the ear,
No shadows are drawn by the cloud cover'd sun,
We plunge in the crystal, our sport is begun ;
Our line where that ripple shoots onward, we throw,
It sweeps to the foam-spangled eddy below,
A tremor a pull-the trout upward is thrown,
He swings to our basket-the prize is our own.

We

We pass the still shallows-a plunge at our side-
The dive of the muskrat, its terror to hide;
A clamor is heard, spots are darting from sight-
The duck with her brood speeding on in affright;
A rush the quick water-snipe cleaving the air-
We pass the still shallows-our prey is not there.

But here, where the trunk stretches half o'er the brook
And slumbers the pool in a leaf-shadow'd nook,
Where eddies are dimpling and circling away,
Steal gently, for here lies the king of our prey.
Throw stilly-if greater the sound meets his ear
Than the burst of a bubble, you strike him with fear.
How cautious his touch of the death-hiding bait,
The rod now is trembling; wait! patiently wait!
A pull-raise your line, yet most gently-'twill bring
The credulous victim more sure to his spring,

A jerk, and the angle is bent to its length,

Play the line from the reel or 'twill break with his strengt
He darts round in foam, but his vigor is past,

Draw steadily to you-you'll have him at last!
Raise up, but beware that strong struggle and gasp,
And the noble snar'd creature is filling your grasp.
How bright with the water-gloss glitters the pride,
Of his brown clouded back, red and gold spotted side!
But we leave the reft scene of the dead monarch's reign
Like a despot that moves on to triumph again.

The voice of the rapid now burthens the air,
Approach, for our prey's crowded city is there!

Here whirlpools, there eddies, here stillness, there foam,
We ply well our efforts-no further we roam;

Our baskets we fill, but our muscles are tired,

And a shade in the sky tells that day has expired;
The robin has chanted his vespers and flown;

The frog from the creek has commenc'd his trombone;