THE WAIL OF THE DEEP. I HAVE Watched the calm billow when twilight had flown, And the pale evening star sweetly played on its breast, When zephyr had slumbered, I've marked the low moan, Steal on the rapt soul like the songs of the blest. 'Twas the Wail of the Deep! when from ocean's dark cave, The god of the waters, of bodiless form, O drear is the strife when the portent is nigh! When high in yon vault walks the empress of night, And on the lone billow the star-ray doth sleep,From slumber the sea-boy is roused with affright, And lists with pale dread to the Wail of the Deep! THE FIELD-STAR OF BETHLEHEM. "The field-star of Bethlehem is the most ghost-like of flowers. It resembles a large hyacinth, the blossoms almost green, the stalks almost white, with a strange shadowy mixture of tints, a ghastly uncertainty, a sepulchral paleness, a solid, clayey, visible coldness. Dr. Clark found the field-star of Bethlehem on a tumulus, in the Troas, which is called the grave of Ajax. Never was any locality more appropriate. It is the flower of the grave." THERE's a plant of the desert, all lonely 'tis seen, It blossoms unknown on the couch of the Brave: With the hue of the sepulchre, coldly in mien, Blooms the Field-Star of Bethlehem, the flower of the grave. It seeks not the garden, it shuns the parterre, Lives not this shy stranger, the queen of the plain. The moon in its brightness looks out on this flower, The soil of the vanquished hath given it birth, Yet the spot where the sage and the warrior have flourished. Yea, and shall flourish proudly! for they that have slept Awake from long night, spurning fear and the chain; And where, o'er her ruins, young Liberty wept, The smile of the free brightens gladly again. Bloom, bloom, lovely flower! but no longer alone, HOME OF MY YOUTH. HOME of my youth! with fond delight, Cot of my fathers! well I know, Near the green lane, the old elm row— O! sweet to me the laughing hours, When earth seemed gay, and heaven was fair; Home of my youth! this heart away, THE MAGDALEN'S HYMN. I KNOW the world derides my claim Full well I know the bitter scoff That greets the hapless female ever; The cold and selfish cast her off, To soothe her and reclaim her, never; And some that give the ready smile, Was a too faithful fond believer. Yet there is gilead for my need, And balm, too, for this bosom's anguish; For He that marks the bruised reed, Will never let the wounded languish. Be still, my heart!-away ye fears! Hath whispered-"Thou, too, art forgiven." THE ALBION. The New York Packet ship Albion, captain Williams, on her passage to Liverpool, was lost in a storm on the Irish coast, off Garretstown, near the Old Point of Kinsale, on the 22d of April, 1822, and all on board, with the exception of nine, were lost. She sailed from New York on the first of April, with a crew of 24 men and 28 passengers. THE storm is weathered, and the fiend Despair, Hath fled. And now is heard the frequent prayer 'Tis deathly slumber, sure, not calm repose,- Of quiet dream, when horror waits ye soon?— Will soon receive ye,-ready is your coral grave. The morning smiles, the breeze is fraught with balm, |