THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the Depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main!
Earth claims not these again!
Yet more, the Depths have more !-Thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay!
Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,-
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!—
Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom.
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!
To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown!
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the Dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!—
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!
SILENT and lone, beneath the cypress bough,
She sat and watched the circlets of the night,
As, imaged on the waveless stream below,
They beamed again to heaven serenely bright!
She felt her dream of happiness was gone;
But Hope, still lingering, shed its heavenly ray,
Like the fair star that in those waters shone-
Still bright, though they were gliding fast away.
Her bosom had been stained in passion's hour,
But she had wept on it her frailties past,
And, like the sullied lily by the shower,
It had been washed and purified at last.
Those long dark lashes, beaded still with tears-
The warm rose blanched upon her sunken cheek-
The lip, which pallid as that rose appears,
Seemed well her silent penitence to speak.
Her's was the heart's still prayer :-her lips were sealed. Those meek eyes, glancing to their kindred heaven,
In dewy orisons her soul revealed:
She asked not-but she looked to be forgiven. Literary Gazette.
WE met in secret :-mystery is to love
Like perfume to the flower; the maiden's blush
Looks loveliest when her cheek is pale with fear.
By moonlight still I sought my lady's bower,
And there, 'mid blossoms fragrant as her sigh,
I met the beauty that my soul adored,
And listened for the light feet, which like wind
Passed o'er the dewy turf. Oh never can
That dear step be forgotten. It is still
Familiar as a sound of yesterday.—
Our shrine of meeting was a cypress, which
Hung o'er the rose, like Sorrow shading Love ;-
This was the temple where we called the Night
To witness gentle vows; and when each lip
Paused in the fulness of impassioned thoughts ;-
Hearkened those moonlight melodies, which came
So soothingly upon that silent time;
The light cascade, descending, shedding round
Its silver drops upon the orange blooms,
That leant to kiss their own fair images,
Each sparkling wave a mirror, and sighed forth
Their soul of odour as they caught the dew;
The melancholy music of that bird
Who sings but to the stars, and tells her tale
Of love, when, bosomed by the snowy clouds,
The Queen of Beauty lights her radiant lamp,
Her own soft planet.-And at times there came
Like a low echo, a faint murmur, when
A gale just laden with the rose's sigh,
Swept the Eolian lyre, and wakened sounds
Of such wild sweetness that it almost seemed
The breath of flowers made audible. They told,
In long departed days, when every grove
Was filled with beautiful imaginings
And visioned creations, that a Nymph
Once pined with unrequited love, and sighed
Away her sad existence. I could think
She left her last tone softly giving soul
To the sad of that lonely lyre;
Or else, perchance, the spirit of some Bard,
Whose life in life was music, wandered o'er
The chords which once with him held sympathy,
Like him neglected, but sweet breathing still.
Why dwell I on these memories? Alas,
The heart loves lingering o'er the shadows left
By joys departed!-'Twas one summer night,
And our brief hour had passed; I know not why,
But my soul felt disquieted within me,
And the next evening, when I sought the grove,
I had a strange foreboding sadness-none
Were there to welcome me, no silvery trace
Of fairy footsteps was upon the grass.
I waited long and anxiously :-none came.-
I wandered on; it was not in the hope
To meet my ROSALIE; but it was sweet
To look upon the stars, and think that they
Had witnessed our love. At once a sound
Of music slowly rose, a sad low chant
Of maiden voices, and a faint light streamed
From out the windows of a chapel near;
I knew it well-'twas the shrine sacred to
Her patron saint, and ROSALIE had said,
If ever I might claim her as my bride
Before the face of heaven, that altar should
Be where our vows were given. I entered in,
And heard a sound of weeping, and saw shapes
Bent down in anguish; in the midst, a bier
Was covered o'er with flowers, sad offerings made
The dead, in vain and one lay sleeping there,
Whose face was veiled. I could not speak nor ask ;
My heart was wild with fear,-I lifted up
The long white veil,-I looked on the pale cheek
Of my so worshipped ROSALIE!
AND is our country's father fled,
His car of fire can none recall? Be-here-his sacred spirit shed, Here—may his prophet mantle fall. Fain would I fill the vacant breach, Stand where he stood the plague to stay; In his prophetic spirit preach,
And in his hallowed accents pray.
It is not that on seraph's wing,
I hope to soar where he has soared ;—
This is the only claim I bring,
I love his church, I love his Lord.
I love the altar of my sires,
Firm as my country's rocks of steel;
And as I feed its sacred fires,
The present deity I feel.
I love to know that, not alone,
I meet the battle's angry tide;
That sainted myriads from the throne
Descend and combat at my side.
Mine is no solitary choice,—
See, here, the seal of saints impressed! The prayers of millions swell my voice; The mind of ages fills my breast.
I love the ivy-mantled tower,
Rocked by the storms of thousand years; The Grave, whose melancholy flower Was nourished by a martyr's tears, The sacred Yew, so feared in war,
Which, like the sword to David given, Inflicted not a human scar,
But lent to man the arms of heaven.
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