THE LÁST VOYAGE.

He launches on the waveless deep,
Sad thoughts crowd on his joy,
That hour he has beheld her weep-
The mother o'er her boy.
Loftily now before the breeze,
The vessel rides, and fast

She dashes through deceitful seas,
That voyage is her last!

The gallant ship has spread her sail,
With her did hope depart?

Day follows day, and wherefore fail
Tidings to cheer the heart?

Not unto that bereaved home,

Will he come, where tears are shed; He comes not, and he will not come 'Till the sea gives up its dead.

They reck not of the ocean-caves, Where men and treasures lie, Buried within their dreamless graves,

Beyond e'en fancy's eye;

They reck not dust is given to dust,
And the coral wreaths his brow;
And she that was a widow first,
Childless is written now:

That noble ship-that cheerful crew-
Those, what dire scath befel,

Is it not hidden from our view?

The last great day shall tell!

Yet we may deem no quiet pillow,

No death-bed was for them;

Nought but the wrecked ship, and the billow

That rushed to overwhelm.

That hour, of friends to sooth, was none,
Of shipmates, none to pray;
The gulf before them-each alone
Must tread the trackless way:
O, that wild passage! who can know
Of the spirit's fearful wreck;
When loosing hold of all below

She fled from the sinking deck!
Aye, and how many wander now
On that dark-heaving sea,

Whose strength shall soon be taught to bow,
As Death, lost one, bowed thee!

Arm of the Lord! haste thou and save,

Of these may it be said:

They lie in that unfathomed grave,

With the Redeemer's dead.

THE LAST VETERAN OF THE REVOLUTION.

I SAW the hoary warrior chief,

Whose sternly proud, but blighted form
Proclaimed him worn with bitter grief,
An oak amid the pelting storm.

Of those whose crimson tide embrued
The fields where Albion's glory fell;
Of those who oft undaunted stood,
When cannons pealed the hero's knell-

He was the last-the only head

Was his, that waved with wintry bloom; Surviving all, for all had sped: They slept in honour's laurelled tomb.

He gazed-alas! he gazed in vain,
To meet the comrades of his toil;
Compatriots on the battle plain,
Companions in the glorious spoil.

All, all around was sad and drear,

And nought could grief of years beguile; For him condolence had no tear; For him affection wore no smile.

I saw-and lo, the old man slept;

The war-worn veteran joined the brave,

And none upon his ashes wept:

Forgotten was the soldier's grave.

WHAT HEART HAS NOT FALSE HOPE MISLED.

WHAT heart has not false Hope misled

In fancy's early dream?

Who has not revelled in the sweets
Of childhood's careless day?

'Tis painful, 'mid the wreck of time
Eternally gone by,

To scan the bliss of other years,
Bliss that shall ne'er return.

To some, existence is a sea
Of calm unruffled joy;
To others, 'tis a troubled deep
Of wretchedness and tears.

For me awaits no airy dream
Of pure unclouded joy:
Anticipation dims my way,
And retrospection grieves.

And what is Earth?-a wildering maze,

Alluring, yet untrue:

The heir of hope may smile-the child

Of misery may die.

To him by secret wo oppressed,

The world bestows no sigh;

Ne'er smooths his pillow, or bedews

His unobtrusive grave.

Yet there are those that keenly feel
The wounds a friend endures;

The griefs their own sad hearts have known
Excite kind sympathy.

I ask not for the false lament

Wealth's minion would bestow. Give me in life's expiring pang, The tear of Poverty.

I LOVE AT EVENING'S SILENT TIDE.

I LOVE at evening's silent tide,
When busy care has flown,
In some sequestered dell to hide,
And pensive, muse alone.

'Tis then in solitude refined, Reflection feels its zest;

'Tis then the contemplative mind With reason's charm is blest.

'Tis then the expanding soul ascends
And roves in fields above,

And the mysterious Essence blends
With Uncreated Love.

O Solitude! thy soothing charm
Can conquer fell despair;