THE MARINER'S SONG OF DEPARTURE.

BY H. F. GOULD.

WHILE o'er the bright bay, With her streamers at play, Our ship in her beauty is gliding,

As brothers, are we,

The glad sons of the sea,

Our own darling element riding.

Good pilot, adieu!

For the skies are all blue;

And, yonder, blue billows are bounding.

We speed from the port,

To be off by the fort

While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.

We leave all behind,

That a warm heart can bind,

In home, love and friendship endearing;

While hope flies before,

For a far, foreign shore,

As the hand at the rudder is steering.

And well do we know,

The proud waters below,

That hence are by us to be ridden,

'Mid the corals and caves,

There are mariners' graves,

Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden.

Yet, before our frail bark,

Be the way light or dark,

Our sun, and the star that we follow,

Is He who unbinds,

Or enchains the strong winds;

And whose hand holds the seas in its hollow.

Then, o'er the fair skies,

Should the storm-spirit rise,

And move his black wings with loud thunder,

Our top-sail we'll reef,

And we'll tack for relief,

And bowing, his pinions pass under.

And so,

'mid the strife

And the flood-waves of life,

For help, in our ark lowly bending,

To heaven would we cry,

Till its dove from on high

Appears, with the peace-branch descending.

Thus we've friend, love and home,

Whereso'er we may roam

The wild seas, from pole to equator —
We've a light and high-tower,

In the name and the power

Of Him who is ocean's Creator.

THE POET'S DREAM,

OR, THE FLOWER

SPIRIT.

BY THOMAS GRAY, JR.

WHO has not heard of Hafez, the young poet of Shirauz? Many a fair Persian girl has listened with delight to his beautiful and impassioned lays; and many a youthful heart has beaten with an ecstasy, the deeper that she dared not give it utterance, in the hope that her beauty would be celebrated in his thrilling verse. Indeed, I doubt not that there were many who would willingly have sacrificed half the term of their natural lives, to have the other half made immortal in his deathless lays. But Hafez too had felt the inspiration of a pair of the darkest eyes of Shirauz; and it was remarked that even when his strains were of the martial deeds of his own warriors, the lay was cold on his lips, compared with the fire that sent every note thrilling to the heart, when the whole soul of the young minstrel was kindled beneath the eye of his beautiful mistress.

But the heart of a lover is a sensitive thing, thrilling and trembling before the eye it loves, as the young reed thrills and trembles to the summer breeze. It was on some occasion when Hafez had seen, or fancied, some coldness in the eye or the manner of Adah, that he took his kitar, and wandered out, sad and alone, to enjoy the satisfaction of berating female fickleness and inconstan