HER mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land,
And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand;
And weeping eyes are on the main,
Until its verge she wanders o'er;
But, from that hour of parting pain,
Oh! she was never heard of more!
In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,
The lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
And oh! the thousand hopes untold
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore ;
Say, were they quenched in ocean cold,
For she was never heard of more?
When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation, doomed to flee,
Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,
Went drifting on a fatal shore?
Vain guesses all!-Her destiny
Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more.
The moon hath twelve times changed her form,
From glowing orb to crescent wan;
Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,
Since from her port that ship hath gone;
But ocean keeps its secret well;
And though we know that all is o'er,
No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell
Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more!
Oh! were her tale of sorrow known,
'Twere something to the broken-heart,
The pangs
of doubt would then be gone,
And Fancy's endless dreams depart !
It may not be :-there is no ray
By which her doom we may explore;
We only know she sailed away,
And ne'er was seen nor heard of more.
Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.
THERE is an hour, when all our past pursuits,
The dreams and passions of our early day,
The unripe blessedness that dropped away
From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits,-
All rush upon the soul: some beauteous form
Of one we loved and lost, or dying tone,
Haunting the heart with music that is flown,
Still lingers near us, with an awful charm!
I love that hour, for it is deeply fraught
With images of things, no more to be ;—
Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought,
And sweeter dreams of love and purity;—
The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain,
And all my boyhood worshipped-but in vain!
We met in secret,-in the depth of night,
When there was none to watch us, not an eye,
Save the lone dweller of the silent sky,
To gaze upon our love and pure delight!
And in that hour's unbroken solitude,
When the white moon hath robed her in its beam,
I've thought, some vision of a blessed dream,
Or spirit of the air, before me stood,
And held communion with me. In mine ear
Her voice's sweet notes, breathed not of the earth;
Her beauty, seemed not of a mortal birth;
And in my heart, there was an awful fear,
A thrill, like some deep warning from above,
That soothed its passion to a spirit's love!
She stood before me,-the pure lamps of heaven
Lighted her charms, and those soft eyes which turned
On me with dying fondness.-My heart burned,
As tremblingly with her's my vows were given.
Then, softly! 'gainst my bosom, beat her heart!
These loving arms around her form were thrown,
Binding her heavenly beauty, like a zone;
While from her ruby, warm lips, just apart,
Like bursting roses, sighs of fragrance stole;
And words of music, whispering in mine ear,
Things pure and holy, none but mine should hear.
For they were accents uttered from her soul;
For which, no tongue her innocence reproved.
And breathed for one who loved her and was loved!
She hung upon my bosom—and her sighs,
Fragrant and fast, were warm upon my cheek;
And they were all her suffering heart could speak,
Save the soft language of her eloquent eyes,
Which the night hid not, for her soul was there,
In starry brightness,-tempered by distress,-
All softened down with love's own tenderness;
And some wild tokens of her heart's despair
Were trembling o'er her beauty. There was one
Who would not have exchanged that sorrowing hour,
For all that he had dreamed in rapture's bower.
In the wide world there was one heart alone,
That blessed him with its love, and truth, and charms,And it was beauty, now, within his arms!
They loved for years with growing tenderness.
They had but one pure prayer, to waft above,
One heart,-one hope,-one dream,-and that was love;
They loved for years, through danger and distress,
Till they were parted, and his spotless fame
Became the mark of hate and obloquy;
'Till the remembering tear, that dimmed her eye,
Was dried on blushes of repentant shanie.
While he-oh God!-in raptured vision sweet,
Would walk alone beneath the evening star,
Watching the light she loved, and dream of her,
And of the hour, when they again should meet!
They met at last ;-but love's sweet vision fled
For ever from his heart,-for she was wed!-
Dublin Magazine.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
WHERE are ye with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?
Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted;
Flown like morning clouds, a thousand ways.
Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother?
Yea in my soul, my friend and brother still!
Heaven received thee, and on earth none other
Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.
Where is she whose looks were love and gladness?
Love and gladness I no longer see;
She is gone, and since that hour of sadness
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.
Where am I? Life's current faintly flowing,
Brings the welcome warning of release ;
Struck with death; ah! whither am I going?—
All is well, my spirit parts in peace.
WRITTEN ON THE PLATFORM AT BERNE.
THREE days of chequered smiles and tears,
Such changeful cheer as Autumn wears,
Still have I sought this spot to gaze
On yon rich work of Gothic days,
That proud Cathedral, perfect still;
Or, fairer yet, this noble hill,
Whose ridge patrician mansions crown,
And terraced gardens sloping down,
Where murmuring in its rapid flow
Broad winds the clear blue Aar below.
Nor deemed I aught might hence be seen
Beyond that swelling slope of green!
But now what vision mocks my sight?
Those summits of eternal white,
More than the eye may count around,
Stretched to the' horizon's farthest bound.
See Him whose fine and painted horn
Rises to meet the earliest morn,
And bask in day, while deepest night
Still blackens each surrounding height;—
And Shet whose glittering dells are known
To sprites of middle-air alone,-
The virgin on whose frozen breast
A shadowy eagle loves to rest,
And spreads his mighty pinions dun
To shield her from the amorous sun,
When all the lingering beam he throws,
She blushes through her waste of snows,
And all her brother Alps around
Are with a roseate glory crowned.
*The Finster-Aar-Horn, the highest of the Bernese Alps.
The Jungfrau, or Virgin's Horn, so called from the belief that it is inaccessible.
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