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,
Arose in his anger to trouble the wave,
Rejoicing in spoil as he rode on the storm.

O drear is the strife when the portent is nigh!
O sad is the plaining that calls to the dead!
The wide waste of waters responds to the cry-
The shriek of the wretch as he sinks to its bed.

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,
Though lovely, the lowliest of Flora's gay train:
In the grove, though the choices and sweetest dwell
there,

Lives not this shy stranger, the queen of the plain.

The moon in its brightness looks out on this flower,
But chilly and pale each moist petal appears;
The night-star, while glowing alone in its bower,
Still wonders to see the sweet tendril in tears.

The soil of the vanquished hath given it birth,
The clime of the abject its beauty hath nourished;
Its home, the degenerate, polluted of earth,

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,
Unfold all thy fragrance! yet not on the grave;
A clime unpolluted henceforth is thy own;
Bloom thou for the soldier, a wreath for the Brave!

HOME OF MY YOUTH.

HOME of my youth! with fond delight,
On thee doth recollection dwell;
Home of my youth! how gaily bright,
The scenes that childhood loved so well.

Cot of my fathers! well I know,
The spot that saw my infant dawn;

Near the green lane, the old elm row—
The village spire-the grassy lawn.

O! sweet to me the laughing hours,

When earth seemed gay, and heaven was fair;
When fancy culled her thornless flowers,
And pleasure reigned, unknown to care.

Home of my youth! this heart away,
Recals those moments dear to me;
Often in dreams will memory stray,
Home of my youth-to weep o'er thee.

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 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,
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 sleep of agony hath seized them; why
Else this deep lethargy? O, can ye close
Your lids, when desolation marches by?

Of quiet dream, when horror waits ye soon?—
Waken, ye tempest-tost! Wherefore?-the wave
Whose altitude mocks heaven, rolling on,

Will soon receive ye,-ready is your coral grave.

The morning smiles, the breeze is fraught with balm,
Hibernia seems freshly from the main
To spring, beauteous and young. Nature is calm-
Far, far, unruffled, spreads the billowy plain,