A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.

"His very heart athirst

To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:-

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more."

Cowper.

THE hollow dash of waves !-the ceaseless roar!Silence, ye billows!-vex my soul no more.

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;

Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,

They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,

I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?

Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,

And the fire-fly's glance through the dark'ning shades
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall-
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still-
I hear them!-around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell-
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away! Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!-down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear, Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!

Hold me not, brethren! I go, I

go

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play-
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way!

Give way the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen

Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt."

GOETHE.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,

With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,

Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance—
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour'd;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;

Surely these things were all thine own— So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;

What was thy tale ?-O gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,

Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning star-
Thine was the void, the gloom,

The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirits far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-
These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine !-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught-
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrim given-
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

"Look now abroad-another race has fill'd

Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and green meads."

THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

BRYANT.