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Youth and beauty, and age and care,
Have Iain them down in chambers there;
And the opening bud and spreading flower
Bloom side by side in the coral bower.

And what to them is the angry roar

As the surges lash the pebbly shore—

Or the sea-bird's shriek o'er the troubled deep,

Where they sleep on in their dreamless sleep!

Sleep on, sleep on, in your lowly graves,

Beneath the swell of the curling waves,

And the tempest and wind shall the requiem be

Of the sleepers who rest in the deep, deep sea.

WRITTEN AT SEA

BY O. HILL.

The stars, through falling dews, that steep

The shades of twilight, faintly shine;
And, if they weep not, seem to weep,

In silence, o'er the day's decline;
O'er hues, that, though they fast decay,

And set in darkness, soon return;
But who for me, when gone far away

Will mourn, nay, who will seem to mourn f

Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The sands shall heap my stoneless grave; Perchance, upon a desert shore,

The thunder of the ocean wave;
The wind, whose voice its breakers mock,

Bear my last sigh unheard away—
The shadow of the mountain rock

Forbid a flower to deck my clay.

And yet, since none will smile the less

When I am gone—the ocean foam, The column of the wilderness,

The sea-rock, were my fitting tomb, My life yon orb, on which I gaze,

My image well—lone, dim, and far: And death to me will be but as

The setting of that nameless star!

SHE SLEEPS.

BY MARY EMILY JACKSON.

She sleeps! no light is on her brow,
No griefs torment her heart's deep aching;

No vision haunts her slumbers now—
She sleeps the sleep that knows no waking.

She sleeps! and worms must revel deep
Upon that brow, mode pale by sorrow.

She sleeps! and dreamless is that sleep
Which knows no coming of the morrow.

She sleeps! no smile illomes her eye,

Now closed forever from its weeping, Her cheeks have lost their wonted dye—

She wakes no more from death's cold sleepingShe sleeps! and earth must close around

Her narrow bed, till earth be riven, And the last trump of God shall sound,

To call her slumbering dust to Heaven.

THE SNOW STORM.

BY SEBA SMITH.

The cold wind swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,

And mid the cheerless hours of night
A mother wandered with her child.

As through the drifted snows she pre

The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,
And darker hours of night came on,

And deeper grew the drifts of snow—
Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone.

"O God!" she cried, in accents wild,

"If I must perish, save my child."

She stript her mantle from her breast,

And bared her bosom to the storm;
As round the child she wrapped the vest,

She smiled to think that it was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil—
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale—
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

THE BLISS OF HOME.

BY T. H. SHREEVE.

Mine be the joy which gleams around

The hearth where pure affections dwellWhere love enrobed in smiles is found,

And wraps the spirit with its spelL I would not seek excitement's whirl,

Where Pleasure wears her tinsel crown, And Passion's billows upward curl,

'Neath Hatred's darkly gathering frown.

The dearest boon from Heaven above,

Is bliss which brightly hallows home; 'Tis sunlight to the world of love,

And life's pure wine without its foam. There is a sympathy of heart

Which consecrates the social shrine— Robs grief of gloom, and doth impart

A joy to gladness all divine.

It glances from the kindling eye

Which o'er Affliction sleepless tends; It gives deep pathos to the sigh

Which anguish from the bosom rends; It plays around the smiling lip,

When love bestows the greeting kiss, And sparkles in each cup we sip

Round the domestic board of bliss!

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