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Youth and beauty, and age and care,
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;
In silence, o'er the day's decline;
And set in darkness, soon return;
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;
Bear my last sigh unheard away—
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!
BY MARY EMILY JACKSON.
She sleeps! no light is on her brow,
No vision haunts her slumbers now—
She sleeps! and worms must revel deep
She sleeps! and dreamless is that sleep
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 mid the cheerless hours of night
As through the drifted snows she pre
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
And colder still the winds did blow,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow—
"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;
She smiled to think that it was warm.
At dawn, a traveller passed by,
And saw her 'neath a snowy veil—
Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale—
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!