Volume Vi Part 10 (1/2)

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, She lies with folded wing, But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, She moves a joyous thing!

And away she flies all gleaming bright, While a wave in lofty pride, Like a gallant knight, in plumage white, Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath, And she wanders bold and free, And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath Are her mighty minstrelsy!

A queen the crested waves among, A light and graceful form, She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken; Earth enjoys refres.h.i.+ng showers When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and s.h.i.+ver'd rock Limpid water breaketh; 'Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, All their sweets surrender; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight fainteth; Only on the tearful cloud G.o.d his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies.

THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-G.o.d asleep The bark majestic lay; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen; The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze; But sweeter was the distant sh.o.r.e, The zephyr 'mong the trees.

The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill; The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd Adown the liquid steep; But now that I am safe on sh.o.r.e, There let me ever be; The sea let others wander o'er; The land! the land! for me.

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguis.h.!.+

We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for ever, But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.