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She came, and passed. Can I forget,

How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth, Ere three autumnal suns had set,

Consigned her to her mother Earth! Joys and their memories pass away; But griefs are deeper traced than they.

We laid her in her narrow cell,

We heaped the soft mould on her breast, And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell Upon her lonely place of rest. May angels guard it ;-may they bless Her slumbers in the wilderness.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,

Its rolling waters onward glide.

There is no marble monument,
There is no stone, with graven lie,

To tell of love and virtue blent

In one almost too good to die. We needed no such useless trace To point us to her resting place.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

But, midst the tears of April showers, The genius of the wild hath strown

His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, And cast his robe of vernal bloom, In guardian fondness, o'er her tomb.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But yearly is her grave-turf dressed,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast.
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.

S. G. GOODRICH.

THE SEABIRD'S TALE.

FAR, far o'er the wave is my island throne,
Where the seagull roams and reigns alone;
Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
And nothing is heard but the ocean shock,
And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
Of drowning men in their agony.'

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I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
And sing of the feast that is made for me.
I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale.

When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
And the tempest sweeps in terror by,
I love to ride on the maddening blast,
And flap my wing o'er the fated mast,
And sing to the crew a song of fear,

Of the reef and the surge that await them here.

When the storm is done, and the feast is o'er,
I love to sit on the rocky shore,

And tell in the ear of the dying breeze,

The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas-
Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge,
And left her fate to the seabird's dirge-
Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride,
And his story left to the secret tide—

Of the father that went on the trustless main,
And never was met by his child again—
And the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the seabird's song can alone reveal.

I tell of the ship that hath found a grave—
Her spars still float on the restless wave,
But down in the halls of the sullen deep,
The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep.

I saw the storm as it gathered fast,
I heard the roar of the coming blast,

I marked the ship in her fearful strife,

As she flew on the tide like a thing of life.'

But the whirlwind came-and her masts were wrung Away, and away on the waters flung;

I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck,

And screamed in delight o'er the coming wreck

I flew to the reef with a heart of glee,

And wiled the ship to her destiny.

On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rushed,
And the sea through her riven timbers gushed-
On the whirling surge the wreck was flung,

And loud on the gale wild voices rung.
I gazed on the scene-I saw despair
On the pallid brows of a youthful pair ;
The maiden drooped like a gentle flower
That is torn away from its native bower-
Her arms round her lover she wildly twined,
And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind.

He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form
From the plash of the sea and the sweep of the storm;
But woe to the lover, and woe to the maid,
Whose hopes on the treacherous Sea are laid,

For he is a king, whose palaces shine
In lustre and light down the pearly brine,
And he loves to gather in glory there,
The choicest things of the earth and air.
In his deep saloons with coral crowned,
Where gems are sparkling above and around,
He gathers his harem of love and grace,
And Beauty he takes to his cold embrace.
The wind and the waves are his messengers true,
And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue-
They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck,
His stores to heap, and his halls to deck.
Ah! lady and lover, ye are doomed their prey-
They come they come !-ye are swept away!
Ye sink in the tide-but it cannot sever
The fond ones who sleep in its depths for ever!

Oh! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar,
And strange were the sights that I hovered o'er.

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