THE LÁST VOYAGE. He launches on the waveless deep, She dashes through deceitful seas, The gallant ship has spread her sail, Day follows day, and wherefore fail 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, That noble ship-that cheerful crew- 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, She fled from the sinking deck! Whose strength shall soon be taught to bow, 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 Of those whose crimson tide embrued 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, 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 'Tis painful, 'mid the wreck of time To scan the bliss of other years, To some, existence is a sea For me awaits no airy dream 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 griefs their own sad hearts have known 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, '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 the mysterious Essence blends O Solitude! thy soothing charm |