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Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight, In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that Fancy touch'd brightThy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss ?
Oh, sailor boy! sailor boy! never again
Unblest and unhonor'd, down deep in the main,
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of wave shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge;
On beds of green sea flow'rs thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber. be made; And ev'ry part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye :-
ANGLING. The south wind is breathing most sweetly to-day, The sunshine is veil'd in a mantle of gray, The Spring rains are past, and the streams leap along, Not brimming nor shrunken, with sparkle and song, 'Tis the month lov'd by, anglerstis beautiful June Away then, away then, to bright Callikoon! |-1 A narrow wild path through the forest is here, With light tiny hoof-prints, the trail of the deer! Beside and above us, what splendor of green! The eye can scarce pierce the dense branches between. How lightly this moss-hillock yields to the foot! How gnarld is yon bough, and how twisted that root! What white and pink clusters the laurel hangs out, The air one deep hum from the bees all about ! The chesnut—tis gala day with her-behold Her leaves nearly cover'd with plumage of gold! Whilst thick in the depths of the coverts below, The blackberry blossoms are scattered like snow. High up, the brown thresher is tuning her lay, The red crested woodpecker hammers away, The caw of the crow echoes hoarse from the tops, The horn of the locust swells shrilly and stops, While knots of bright butterflies flutter around, And seeks the strip'd squirrel his cave in the ground.
We break from the tree-groups; a glade deep with grass;
We pass the still shallow a plunge at our side-
But here, where the trunk stretches half o'er the brook,
The voice of the rapid now burthens the air,
The spider has ceas'd his slight furrow to show;
THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd nor wished to change his place: Unpractic'd he to fawn or seek for power, By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings but reliev'd their pain. The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd; The broken soldier kindly bade to stay; Sat by his fire and talk'd the night away: Wept o’ér his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave 'ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean’d to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he felt and pray'd for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies; He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood, at his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
" To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek !"
Bozzaris cheer his band,
God-and your native land."
They fought-like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
Bleeding at every vein.
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals,
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Greece nurtured in her glorys' time,
Even in her own proud clime.
That were not born to die.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
WHERE Calpe frowns, where Etna flames on high,