But 'mid the billows still was seen The stranger's struggling form; And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm. For still, while with his strong right arm He buffeted the wave, The other upheld that treasured prize Was, then, the love of pelf so strong, No! all earth's gold were dross to him, Through lonely years of changeless woe, For there was all the mind's rich wealth, That, in after years, he hoped might form Nobly he struggled, till o'erspent, His nerveless limbs no more Could bear him on through the waves that rose Like barriers to the shore; Yet still he held his long-prized wealth, He saw the wish'd-for land A moment more, and he was thrown Alas! far better to have died Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bow'd down his haughty soul; To the Cricket. Such was his dreary lot, at once To the Cricket. BY THE REV. THOMAS COLE. SPE PRIGHTLY cricket, chirping still In my kitchen take thy rest As a truly welcome guest; For no evils shall betide Those with whom thou dost reside. Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd, Wilt not pillage for thy diet, Nor deprive us of our quiet; Like the horrid rat voracious, 357 But content art thou to dwell Thou art happier, happier far, Every day and every night Longer than the age of Man. Song. 359 Song. BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.) RE other eyes beguiling, Love? ARE Are other rose-lips smiling, Love? Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Then gaze not on other eyes, Love; You may find many a brighter one All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love; Though changed from all that now thou art, Would be the world to me, Love, The Unknown Grave. By D. M. MOIR. "Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.”—JEREMY Taylor. WHO sleeps below ?—who sleeps below?— WE It is a question idle all ! Ask of the breezes as they blow, Say, do they heed, or hear thy call? They murmur in the trees around, And mock thy voice,—an empty sound! A hundred summer suns have shower'd Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; With piercing floods, and hues of night, Was he of high or low degree? Did grandeur smile upon his lot? Dwelt he within some lonely cot, From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread ? Say, died he ripe, and full of years, When sound was silence to his ears, And the dim eyeball sight withheld; |