THE MARINER'S DREAM. lumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; ut watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. eamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; ar, far behind him the green waters glide, the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. ssamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, Days, months, years, and ages the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obeywall; O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul! THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. HAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells, We ask not such from thee. whence is that flame which now glares on his Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth un eye? ! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? rings from his hammock,-he flies to the deck; | azement confronts him with images dire; told, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Yet more, the depths have more! rolled Thy waves have Above the cities of a world gone by! winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck; Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire. mountains the billows tremendously swell; ain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; En hands of spirits are ringing his knell; the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave! or boy, woe to thy dream of delight! Harkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; e now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,-! Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom kiss? The place was kept at board and hearth so long The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, OUR BOAT TO THE WAVES. UR boat to the waves go free, By the bending tide, where the curled wave breaks, Like the track of the wind on the white snow-flakes: O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown! Away, away! 'T is a path o'er the sea. Yet must thou hear a voice-" Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !— R Restore the dead, thou Sea!" TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. ESTLESS forms of living light, Quivering on your lucid wings, With a thousand shadowings; Or of the shade of golden flowers, As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, Is but the task of weary pain, HARTLEY COLERIDGE. Blasts may rave,-spread the sail, For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. THE SEA. 'HE sea! the sea! the open sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions round; I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, If a storm should come and awake the deep, I love, oh how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, I never was on the dull tame shore, The waves were white, and red the morn, I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, BRYAN W. PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.) THE LIGHT-HOUSE. HE scene was more beautiful far to the eye, Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arched sky ked pure as the spirit that made it : murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed the shadowy waves' playful motion, the dim distant hill, 'till the light-house blazed e a star in the midst of the ocean. ger the joy of the sailor-boy's breast oment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, "er them the light-house looked lovely as hopestar of life's tremulous ocean. me is long past, and the scene is afar, when my head rests on its pillow, emory sometimes rekindle the star, blazed on the breast of the billow: sclosing hour, when the trembling soul flies, death stills the heart's last emotion; en may the seraph of mercy arise, a star on eternity's ocean! Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud : ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. REAT Ocean! strongest of creation's sons, As pleased the ear of God! original, Loud uttering satire, day and night, on each Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedst none, Heardst none, to none didst honor, but to God Thy Maker, only worthy to receive Thy great obeisance. ROBERT POLLOK, THE TEMPEST. E were crowded in the cabin, To be shattered by the blast, So we shuddered there in silence- As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land?" Then we kissed the little maiden, THE BAY OF BISCAY. OUD roared the dreaded thunder, In the Bay of Biscay, O! Now dashed upon the billow, None stops the dreadful leak; At length the wished-for morrow Each heaved a bitter sigh; Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent― A sail in sight appears! We hail her with three cheers; Now we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, O! ANDREW CHERRY. THE SEA-LIMITS. ONSIDER the sea's listless chime; The murmur of the earth's own shell, Is the era's end. Our sight may pass No furlong farther. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet which is death's,-it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is on the sands. Lost utterly, the whole sky stands Gray and not known along its path. Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee. Hark where the murmurs of thronged me: Surge and sink back and surge again,— Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strewn beach, GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN. HE most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles. The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it | his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has roll to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star. in vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward. Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and wind, and flowing wave. He constructs and propels his vast engines of flame and vapor, and, through the solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thundering on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have been lost and won. On the fate of Actium was suspended the empire of the world. In the gulf of Salamis, the pride of Persia found a grave; and the crescent set forever in the waters of Navarino; while, at Trafalgar and the Nile, nations held their breath "As each gun From its adamantine lips, Spread a death-shade round the ships The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan-his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbowtinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save when he goes down there to seek, amid their si-social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, lent magnificence, his burial monument. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom, float away to encircle the globe; on distant mountains and deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exhulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business on the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. Let one go up upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours entranced in reverence and tears. Man, also, has made the ocean the theatre of his power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract. WALTER COLTON. THE GREAT DEEP. EAUTIFUL, sublime, and glorious; Image of eternity! Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee, BERNARD BARTON |