Then like them ceas'd-and few could say That he, or they had been. THE LIGHT-HOUSE. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye, The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky The murmur rose soft, as I silently gaz'd From the dim distant isle, till the light-house fire blaz'd No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast, One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope, And tho't that the light-house look'd lovely as hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet, when my head rests on its pillow Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blaz'd on the breast of the billow. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, THE FISHER. [From the German of Goethe.] THE water roll'd, the water swell'd, Calmly his patient watch he held Beside the fresh'ning tide. And while his patient watch he keeps, And from the orgy ocean deeps A water maiden rose. She spake to him, she sung to him 6 Why lure'st thou so my brood,. With cunning hand and cruel heart, From out their native flood? 'Ah! couldst thou know, how here below, 'Bathes not the golden sun his face, And rise they not from their resting place, 6 And lures thee not the clear blue heav'n, And thy form so fair, so mirror'd there, The water roll'd, the water swell'd, It reach'd his naked feet; He felt, as at his love's approach, She spake to him-she sung to him, "THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. Her maiden veil, her own black hair, I've pull'd away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed, That, shining from the sweet south-west, The sun-beams might rejoice thy rest. 'It was a weary, weary road, That led thee to the pleasant coast, ''Twas I the broider'd mock'son made, Thy bow in many a battle bent, With wampum belts I cross'd thy breast, And deck'd thee bravely as became Thou'rt happy now, for thou art past Amid the flush'd and balmy air, 'Yet, to thy own dear Indian maid, Thy thot's will sometimes earthward stray, To her who sits where thou wert laid, And weeps the hours away: Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet. 'And thou by one of those still lakes, On which the south wind scarcely breaks A bower for me and thee hast made And thou dost wait and watch to meet THE HARPER. [nigh, On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was When at last I was forc'd from my Sheelah to part, Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, A SOLDIER'S THE LAD I ADORE. A SOLDIER's the lad I adore, Tho' he's far from his friends and his home, With plume in his helm, and his sword Full many a youth have I seen, Who has whisper'd affection to me: But give me the lad with a doublet of green, Who can beat Freedom's reveille. Should he fall, but I hope he may not, His spirit shall dwell with the brave, His deeds by his country shall ne'er be forgot, While Freedom weeps over his grave. Then march to the roll of the drum, It summons the brave to the plain, Where heroes contend for the home Which perchance they may ne'er see again. |