634. SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay;

His hammock swung loose, at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn, and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory-stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy, her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise-
Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow sings sweet, from her nest in the wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him, with looks of delight,

His cheek is impearled, with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy, in a love-kiss unite,

With the lips of the maid, whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-
"O God, thou hast blessed me-I ask for no more."
Ah, what is that flame which now bursts on his eye!
Ah, what is that sound, which now larums his ear!
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
"Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images dire-
Wild winds, and waves drive the vessel a wreck-
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!
Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell-
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mary to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are wringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!
Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss-
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss!
Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form, or frame, from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.
On beds of green sea-flower, thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones, the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And the vast waters over thy body shall roll-
Earth loses thy pattern forever, and aye-

Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul.-Dimond. TIME AND ITS CHANGES. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however wrong it may be, cannot be totally changed at once; we must yield a little to the prepossession, which has taken hold on the mind, and we may then bring people to adopt what would offend them, if endeavored to be introduced by violence.

What's fame? a fancied life in other's breath,
A thing beyond us, e'en before our death.
All fame is foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart;
One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud hussas :
And more true joy, Marcellus-exil'd, feels,
Than Cesar, with a senate at his heels.

Mind, not money-makes the man,

635. CHILD HAROLD.-CANTO IV.
Oh! that the desert-were my dwelling place,
With one fair spirit-for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her!
Ye elements!-in whose ennobling stir,
I feel myself exalted-Can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such-inhabit many a spot!
Though with them to converse, can rarely be our lot.

There is a pleasure-in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture-on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle-with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep, and dark blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble, in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator, the vain title take-
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war!
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mår
Alike, the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee--
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them, while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou-
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

(Calm, or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,
Dark-heaving,)-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made! each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like the bubbles, onward; from a boy,

I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.
In the dreams of delight, which with ardor we
Oft the phantom of sorrow appears; [seek,
And the roses of pleasure, which bloom on your
Must be steeped in the dew of your tears. [cheek,
The aged man, that coffers up his gold,
Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painful
And scarce hath eyes, his treasure to behold,
But still, like pining Tantalus, he sits,
And useless bans the harvest of his wits,
Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment, that it cannot cure his pain.
To err-is human; to forgive-divine.

[fits,

636. PATRIOTIC TRIUMPH. The citizens of America-celebrate that day, which gave birth to their liberties. The recollection of this event, replete with consequences so beneficial to mankind, swells every heart with joy, and fills every tongue with praise. We celebrate, not the sanguinary exploits of a tyrant, to subjugate, and enslave-millions of his fellow-creatures; we celebrate, neither the birth, nor the coronation, of that phantom, styled a king; but, the resurrection of liberty, the emancipation of mankind, the regeneration of the world. These are the sources of our joy, these the causes of our triumph. We pay no homage at the tomb of kings, to sublime our feelings-we trace no line of illustrious ancesters, to support our dignity-we recur to no usages sanctioned by the authority of the great, to protect our rejoicing; no, we love liberty, we glory in the rights of men, we glory in independence. On whatever part of God's creation a human form pines under chains, there, Americans drop their tears.

A dark cloud once shaded this beautiful quarter of the globe. Consternation, for awhile, agitated the hearts of the inhabitants. War desolated our fields, and buried our vales in blood. But the dayspring from on high soon opened upon us its glittering portals. The angel of liberty descending, dropped on Washington's brow, the wreath of victory, and stamped on American freedom, the seal of omnipotence. The darkness is past, and the true light now shines-to enliven, and rejoice mankind. We tread a new earth, in which dwelleth righteousness; and view a new heaven, flaming with inextinguishable stars. Our feet will no more descend into the vale of oppressions; our shoulders will no more bend-under the weight of a foreign domination, as cruel, as it was unjust. Well may we rejoice-at the return of this glorious anniversary; a day dear to every American; a day-to be had in everlasting remembrance; a day, whose light circulates joy-through the hearts of all republicans, and terror through the hearts of all tyrants.-Maxy.

637. TIT FOR TAT: COQUETRY PUNISHED.
Ellen was fair, and knew it too,
As other village beauties do,
www.Whose mirrors-never lie;
Secure of any swain she chose,
She smiled on half a dozen beaux,
And, reckless of a lover's woes,
She cheated these, and taunted those;
"For how could any one suppose

A clown could take her eye?"
But whispers through the village ran,
That Edgar was the happy man,

The maid design'd to bless;
For, wheresover moved the fair,
The youth was, like her shadow, there,
And rumor-boldly match'd the pair,
For village folks will guess.
Edgar did love, but still delay'd
To make confession to the maid,
So bashful was the youth;
But let the flame in secret burn,
Certain of meeting a return,

When, from his lips, the fair should learn,
Officially, the truth.

At length, one morn, to taste the air,
The youth and maid, in one horse chair,
A long excursion took.

Edgar had nerved his bashful heart,
The sweet confession to impart,
For ah! suspense had caused a smart,
He could no longer brook.

Or in your bosom spring.
What! take Ellen home? ha! ha! upon my
The thought is laughably absurd,
As anything I ever heard;

I never dream'd of such a thing!" Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent; always afflicted-would be sullen, or despondent. Hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall the admonitions of conscience.

640. FEVER DREAM.

A fever--scorched my body, fired my brain!
Like lava, in Vesuvius, boiled my blood,
Within the glowing caverns of my heart.

I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught

Of fountain water.-Twas with tears, denied.

I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept;
But rested not-harassed with horrid dreams,
Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains,
Mountains, disgorging flames-forests on fire,
Steam, sunshine, smoke, and boiling lakes-
Hills of hot sand, and glowing stones, that seemed
Embers, and ashes, of a burnt up world!

Thirst raged within me.-I sought the deepest vale,
And called on all the rocks, and caves for water ;-
I climbed a mountain, and from cliff to cliff,
Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water:-

I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots,

Still crying, Water! water!-While the cliffs and caves,

In horrid mockery, re-echoed "Water!"
Below the mountain, gleamed a city, red

With solar flame, upon the sandy bank

Of a broad river.-"Soon, oh soon!" I cried,
"I'll cool my burning body in that flood,

And quaff my fill."-I ran-I reached the shore.-
The river was dried up. Its oozy bed
Was dust; and on its arid rocks, I saw
The scaly myriads-fry beneath the sun!
Where sunk the channel deepest, I beheld
A stirring multitude of human forms,
And heard a faint, wild, lamentable wail.
Thither I sped, and joined the general cry
Of" water!" They had delved a spacious pit,
In search of hidden fountains-sad, sad sight!
I saw them rend the rocks up in their rage
With mad impatience, calling on the earth
To open, and yield up her cooling fountains.
Meanwhile the skies, on which they dared not gaze,
Stood o'er them like a canopy of brass-
Undimmed by moisture. The red dog-star raged,
And Phoebus, from the house of Virgo, shot
His scorching shafts. The thirsty multitude

Grew still more frantic. Those, who dug the earth,
Fell lifeless on the rocks, they strained to upheave,
And filled again, with their own carcasses,
The pits they made-undoing their own work!
Despair, at length, drove out the laborers,

At sight of whom, a general groan-announced

The death of hope. Ah! now, no more was heard
The cry of "water!" To the city next,
Howling, we ran-all hurrying without aim:-

Thence to the woods. The baked plain gaped for moisture,
And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed

The breath of furnace-fierce, volcanic fire,

Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands

To ciouds. Amid the forests, we espied

A faint, and bleating herd. Sudden, a shrill,

And horrid shout arose of-"Blood! blood! blood!"
We fell upon them with the tiger's thirst,

And drank up all the blood, that was not human!

We were dyed in blood! Despair returned;

The cry of blood was hushed, and dumb confusion reigned.

Even then, when hope was dead-past hope

I heard a laugh! and saw a wretched man

Rip his own veins, and, bleeding, drink

With eager joy. The example seized on all:

Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins,

Fiercely, in search of blood! And some there were,
Who, having emptied their own veins, did seize

Upon their neighbor's arms, and slew them for their blood-
Oh! happy then, were mothers, who gave suck.
They dashed their little infants from their breasts,
And their shrunk bosoms tortured, to extract
The balmy juice, oh! exquisitely sweet

To their parched tongues! "Tis done!-now all is gone!
Blood, water, and the bosom's nectar,-all!

"Rend, oh! ye lightnings! the sealed firmament,
And flood a burning world.-Rain! rain! pour! pour!
Open-ye windows of high heaven! and pour
The mighty deluge! Let us drown, and drink

Luxurious death! Ye earthquakes, split the globe,
The solid, rock-ribbed globe!-and lay all bare
Its subterranean rivers, and fresh seas!"

Thus raged the multitude. And many fell
In fierce convulsions;-many slew themselves.
And now, I saw the city all in flames-
The forest burning-and the very earth on fire!
I saw the mountains open with a roar,

Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders,
And seas of lava rolling headlong down,
Through crackling forests fierce, and hot as hell,
Down to the plain-I turned to fly,and waked!-Harney
641. NOSE AND THE MAN.

Kind friends, at your call, I'm come here to sing;
Or rather to talk of my woes;

Though small's the delight to you I can bring
The subject's concerning my nose.

Some noses are large, and others are small,
For nature's vagaries are such,

To some folks, I'm told, she gives no nose at all,
But to me she has given too much.

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

My cause of complaint, and the worst of my woes, Is, because I have got such a shocking long nose. Some insult or other, each day I do meet,

And by joking, my friends are all foes;
And the boys every day, as I go thro' the street,
All bellow out-" There goes a nose!"

A woman, with matches one day, I came near,
Who, just as I tried to get by her,
Shoved me rudely aside, and ask'd, with a leer,
If I wanted to set her o'fire?

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

Each rascal, each day, some inuendo throws,
As, my nose is n't mine, I belongs to my nose.
I once went a courting a wealthy old maid,
To be married we were, the next day;
But an accident happened, the marriage delay'd,
My nose got too much in the way.

For the night before marriage, entranc'd with my [bliss, In love, e'er some torment occurs

I screw'd up my lips, just to give her a kiss,
My nose slipp'd, and rubb'd against her's!

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

The ring that I gave, at my head soon she throws,
And another tipp'd me, 'twas a w-ring on the nose.
Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack,
I'm seeking for rest, at each place,

Or, like pilgrim of old, with his load at his back,
Only my load I bear on my face.

I can't get a wife, though each hour hard I try,
The girls they all blush, like a rose;

"I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why? Because, you have got such a nose.

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!
Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose,
They all like the man, but they say-blow his nose!
Like a large joint of meat, before a small fire,
They say that my proboscis hangs-
Or, to a brass knocker, nought there can be nigher,
And in length, it a pump-handle bangs.

A wag, you must know, just by way of a wipe,
Said, with a grin on his face, t'other night,
As he, from his pocket, was pulling a pipe,
"At your nose will you give me a light?"
Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

If I ask any one my way to disclose,

If I lose it-they answer, why, follow your nose,