APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

Beneath thy dark and vengeful flood,
The proudest fleets of yore,

With all their hale and gallant crews

Sunk, to return no more.

And there the beautiful and brave

Rest in thine awful deep,

109

While o'er their bleached and scattered bones, Thy sullen surges sweep.

Roll on, old ocean, dark and deep!
For thee there is no rest :-

Those giant waves shall never sleep,
That o'er thy billowy breast,
Tramp like the march of conquerors,-
Nor cease their choral hymn,

Till earth with fervent heat shall melt,
And lamps of heaven grow dim.

'I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

BY WILLIAM CUTTER.

'It is true there are shadows as well as lights, clouds as well as sunshine, thorns as well as roses; but it is a happy world after all.'

'I WOULD not live alway!'-yet 'tis not that here There's nothing to live for, and nothing to lově ; The cup of life's blessings, though mingled with tears,

Is crowned with rich tokens of good from above: And dark though the storms of adversity rise,

Though changes dishearten, and dangers appal, Each hath its high purpose, both gracious and wise, And a FATHER's kind providence rules over all.

'I would not live alway!' and yet oh, to die!

With a shuddering thrill how it palsies the heart! We may love, we may pant for, the glory on high,

Yet tremble and grieve from earth's kindred to part.

'I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 111

There are ties of deep tenderness drawing us down, Which warm round the heart-strings their tendrils

will weave;

And Faith, reaching forth for her heavenly crown,

Still lingers, embracing the friends she must leave.

'I would not live alway!' because I am sure
There's a better, a holier rest in the sky;
And the hope that looks forth to that heavenly shore,
Overcomes timid nature's reluctance to die.

O visions of glory, of bliss, and of love,

Where sin cannot enter, nor passion enslave, Ye have power o'er the heart, to subdue or remove The sharpness of death, and the gloom of the grave!

'I would not live alway!' yet 'tis not that time,
Its loves, hopes and friendships, cares, duties, and
joys,

Yield nothing exalted, nor pure, nor sublime,
The heart to delight, or the soul to employ ;
No! an angel might oftentimes sinlessly dwell
Mid the innocent scenes to life's pilgrimage given;
And though passion and folly can make earth a hell,

To the pure 'tis the emblem and gate-way of heaven.

'I would not live alway!' and yet, while I stay In this Eden of time, 'mid these gardens of earth, I'd enjoy the sweet flowers and fruits as I may,

And gain with their treasures whate'er they are worth:

I would live as if life were a part of my heaven,
I would love, as if love were a part of its bliss,
And I'd take the sweet comforts, so lavishly given,
As foretastes of that world, in portions, in this.

'I would not live alway!' yet willingly wait,
Be it longer or shorter, life's journey to roam,
Ever ready and girded, with spirits elate,

To obey the first call that shall summon me home. O yes! it is better, far better, to go

Where pain, sin, and sorrow can never intrude ; And yet I would cheerfully tarry below,

And expecting the BETTER, rejoice in the GOOD.

A DIRGE,

SUNG IN MEMORY OF LANE, o'brien, and smith, of

THE CLASS OF 1838.

BY ROBERT WYMAN.

COMRADES, we meet to mourn the dead!

We meet-but ah! not all;

Our tears of grief may not be shed
Upon the funeral pall.

Far, far away from this dear haunt,
Our friends and classmates sleep;
Yet here may we their requiem chant,
And o'er their memory weep.

Well hath the classic poet sung, *
That Death with equal stride
Knocks at the gate of old and young-
Of poverty and pride.

*Horace Lib. 1. Car. 4. Palida Mors, etc.