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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
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 seeks not the garden, it shuns the parterre,
there, 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,
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,
0! sweet to me the laughing hours,
Home of my youth! this heart away,
THE MAGDALEN'S HYMN.
I know the world derides my claim
To healing pity and protection ; I know that to the child of shame,
It turns no look of kind affection :
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,
Approving, to the gay deceiver, Abhor her, who a prey to guile,
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!
Tempests that have my spirit driven,Even He who looked on Mary's tears,
Hath whispered—“Thou, too, art forgiven.”
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. TAE storm is weathered, and the fiend Despair, Who the long weary day stood sullen by, Hath fled. And now is heard the frequent prayer From grateful altars wafted; in each eye Hope lights her beacon,—busy fancy now Sketches fond scenes of bliss, for port is near ; The proud ship cleaves the foam with steady prow, The sea-boy sings of home, by peril made more dear.
'Tis deathly slumber, sure, not calm repose,-
The morning smiles, the breeze is fraught with balm,